Lantern Burning Bright
by Acacia24
Summary: Agnes could see the glow of a burning lantern when she looked up at the north tower. It was like a star against the dark sky. She knew then that the bell ringer was waiting for her. Warning: There are several violent scenes. Might change to M.
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: I do not own Hugo's Hunchback of Notre Dame nor do I own the Disney version. _

**This story serves as a prequel, midquel and sequel to the Disney film.**

Prologue: Part One

**May 1467**

A king should not have to beg. Yet there he was, Clopin Trouillefou, king of the gypsies, standing on the threshold of a country home, prepared to beg just so that he and his tribe could stay on this property. It was a place that, at one time, must have been a modest countryside retreat, likely the vacation spot for some well-to-do family, but it was obvious that the house had been left to rot. The roof buckled and the cracked windows looked like splintered blocks of ice. Clopin doubted if the inhabitants knew how blessed they were. To sleep underneath a roof! But never mind that. Clopin gritted his teeth together as his fist pounded on the door, his scowl softening into a syrupy smile when a woman answered.

"Good evening, my lady," he began courteously, sweeping of his festooned hat and clutching it desperately in his hands, his eyes dropping to the ground like some groveling peasant. "May I speak to whomever owns this property?"

"That would be my brother," the woman answered curtly, "but he does not reside at this residence."

"Ah, well, you see, my lady, my band and I are traveling and wish to stay on this property… We noticed that there is a well here and we are in need of water. It has been a weary journey and there are children, many of them, within the caravan. Please, I beg you. Let us stay. Just for tonight, of course," he added hastily. Clopin excelled in this piteous routine. Now was the time to raise his head- not a whole lot, just a little- to meet the eyes of the dupe whose sympathies he had stirred. He did so, and gazed at the face of a young woman. She was somewhat pretty, but he had seen women, lots of women, who were far more prettier. _Nothing too remarkable about this one, _Clopin thought, though he managed not to smirk. He instead gazed upon her like a religious pilgrim gazing upon the Holy Virgin.

"Just for tonight? And then you will all leave?"

Her eagerness at their departure was should have been insulting, but Clopin could not help but be almost amused by it. "You have my word."

"Then you may stay," she said.

She started to close the door, but Clopin, attempting to push his luck even further, quickly spoke up. "My lady?"

"Yes?"

"A few coins for your future to be foretold?"

The woman raised her eyebrows, looking down at her palm. "Can you… do that?"

Clopin involuntarily dropped the facade. The soppy smile now became a genuine grin. "Indeed!"

"Truly?"

"Truly." And before he could stop himself, Clopin took hold of her hand, tracing the lines of her palm with a single finger.

The sudden flicker of warmth in her eyes vanquished faster then a snuffed out candle.

"There will be many palms to read in the city," she said as she removed her hand. "I suggest that you don't trifle with your patrons, otherwise you will loose a lot of business. Good day to you, and have a good journey!" She slammed the door. It was then occurred to him that she had been prudent enough to see through the dramatics and that his desperate attempt to earn money had failed. It was deliberate, the way she had feigned excitement and the fact that he, a talented charlatan, fell for it, was infuriating. It an insult to his theatrical skills.

"By the devil's claws!" He roared in frustration and this was followed by a series of other curses, far from the soft-spoken peasant he was moments ago. It was futile to carry on with his sickening facade. Why she had given her permission, Clopin did not know, but this did not lessen his annoyance. He stormed back to the caravan where he busied himself by grabbing twigs from off the ground so that he could build a campfire later that night.

It was true that she had no desire to have her future foretold, but the idea was intriguing. Truthfully, she _was_ curious about the future of her daughter. She told herself that it was dangerous to become involved with such things, but curiosity overcame her. To think that her Agnes might possibly became a queen, or an empress! The woman wondered what miracles were written in her child's palm. She brought forth her young daughter that night, quietly slipping into the gypsy camp and sitting before an ancient gypsy woman whose pipe was clutched in-between her yellowish teeth. The child sat gravely as the gypsy woman studied the small hand.

"I see a lantern filled with dull, greenish light. The light dims and almost dies. It then burns again, bright as a star, now with a radiant light filled with warmth."

She did not understand this cryptic message, but assumed that the it had something to do with Agnes's eyes, which were as green as willow. Perhaps her daughter's vision would weaken to almost blindness before being strong again.

Intrigued she asked, "And what else?"

"A knife. A voiceless nightingale. A crystal cherished as though it is the rarest of treasures."

"But _who_ will my Agnes marry? _Will _she marry?"

"That is all I see. I can tell you no more. Now, my payment, if you please."

"Fine." She dug into her pocket and placed a single coin in the gypsy's withered hand. Disgruntled, she herded her daughter away from the campsite.

Clopin was there, having overheard the fortune telling, and could not resist the idea of giving her some good-natured banter. He slipped from out of the shadows and into the moonlight, blocking the lady's path. The gypsy king swept off his outlandish hat, a ridiculous-looking accessory that, he hoped, would increase the lady's annoyance. He bowed like a courtly gentleman. "What is wrong, Madame? Disappointed that the child's future is not as glorious as you had hoped it to be?"

He expected her to storm past him wordlessly. Instead, the woman shook her head. "I didn't understand a word of it! Nightingales and crystals! What the devil was that all about?"

The gypsy king shrugged. "Who knows? I can comprehend that madwoman's ramblings no better than you can."

He was surprised when she burst out laughing and was even more shocked by how lovelier her face was when animated. The sound of jingling saved him from that awkward moment, and, looking down, saw the woman's daughter prodding the bells that adorned the hat that was still clutched in his hand. "Well, well, well! Look's like someone has taken a fancy to my hat! What is your name, little one?"

"Agnes."

"Well, Miss Agnes, since you like my hat so much, it's yours!" He placed the ornamented cap on the child's head. "Wear that hat with pride, little one, for you are wearing the hat of the gypsy king!" He winked at the child's mother. "Bout time I got a new hat anyway." The gypsy king extended a gloved hand towards the woman. "We have not been properly introduced," he said in a genuine attempt at friendship. "I am Clopin."

"Bernice Corday." She gave him an evaluating glance and shook his hand after a moment's hesitation. And Clopin, judging by the smile she gave, knew that his tribe could stay on this property longer than they had originally intended.

_Author's Note: Agnes is NOT Esmeralda. Yes, I know that in the original novel Esmeralda's given name is Agnes and I am aware that there are similarities between Bernice Corday and Sister Gudule. Originally, this story was going to be about Esmeralda, but Agnes somehow evolved into an entirely new, original character and Esmeralda will be appearing shortly. I did not change her name because it will be an important element in a future chapter. Anyway, I apologize for any confusion. _

_Reviews will be greatly appreciated. _


	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer: I do not own Hugo's Hunchback of Notre Dame nor do I own the Disney version. _

Prologue: Part Two

**April 1469**

Bernice Corday was dying. And Clopin, with his hands clasping hers, studied her face one last time. What a fool he was to once think that she was _merely_ pretty! But that was when she had appeared cold, before she began to thaw, frigid ice melting into balmy water. _No, not like water_, Clopin thought. She had opened up like a bud blossoming into a rose, prompting Clopin to nickname her the Song Blossom. He knew everything about her, her fears and her secrets.

After he had kissed her the first time, Clopin, suddenly wary of the consequences of being caught, interrogated her about her family. Instead of lying, Bernice admitted that she never had a husband. Furthermore, her daughter, Agnes, was the result of a brief liaison with a man she thought she loved, a man had abandoned her upon learning about her pregnancy. She had been disowned by her family, save for her eldest brother, though he nor anyone else ever visited. Clopin reframed from mentioning that he had seen many gypsy girls disowned for the same reasons. Virginity amongst young, unmarried girls was as mandatory in his world as well as hers. A girl's worth as well as her bride price would drop considerably if soiled before marriage. Yet Clopin felt a begrudging admiration for this young woman. He was quick to see her grief and utter degradation during her confession.

"It doesn't matter," he said, partly to himself and partly to Bernice, and he tapped her lips impishly. He often brushed her lips with his fingertips, noticing that they were the color of a pomegranate. Her lips were exquisite. _She_ was exquisite, so exquisite that he was almost speechless that first night they had shared together two years ago

But that round, cheerful face was thin and drained of color, the twinkling eyes that now sparkled from the fever. Even now she was beautiful. Helplessly, Clopin lifted her head, pouring water into his lover's mouth. But when she did not drink, he tossed aside the ladle and kissed her face repeatedly. He forgot how much he despised begging and beseeched her to live in a desperate frenzy. "Don't go," he sobbed in-between kisses. "Don't go." He curled up beside her, burrowing his head against her neck. "Don't go."

Clopin woke up early that next morning; Bernice did not. She had slipped away during the night.

First the inhabitants of local farms came, followed by a priest, followed by people who claimed to be relatives. It was they, these cousins and siblings, aunts and uncles, who chased Clopin from off the property. They would not even allow him to attend his beloved's funeral on account of being a gypsy. He and his caravan departed.

They set up camp that same night. Clopin pitched his tent slightly away from the others and sat outside it dejectedly. As the surrounding campfires burned, fiddles were pulled out and a long, woeful tune was played, so very different from the lively music that was normally heard. Clopin remained immobile, staring at the smoldering logs and dying embers.

A fellow vagabond came and seated himself beside Clopin.

"It is no wonder that you loved the Song Blossom as much as you did," he said to smoking timber. "She was a good woman. A kind one. Not many people would share everything they have with riffraff such as us." He glanced at Clopin then turned away again, graciously ignoring the wetness he saw in the grieving man's eyes. "I am truly sorry for your loss."

Clopin did not reply, not right away. He too stared at the kindling as though the rising smoke would foretell his future. "Tomorrow we will venture north," he said at last.

The man nodded in approval. "Good. We have stayed here long enough. I miss the nomadic lifestyle."

"We will be going to Paris. And staying in Paris."

The man flinched involuntarily. "Paris! I have heard stories about Paris, Clopin. They say that gypsies are not welcomed there."

"Gypsies are not welcomed anywhere, my friend."

"Yes, that's true, but there is someone, whether he is a prince or a duke or a judge, I do not know. They say his clutches are like iron. I heard he once killed a gypsy newborn after killing its parents… The father was hanged, the mother died from a fatal blow to the head… Never found the child. It's rumored that the infant was thrown into the Seine."

"Yes, I heard the tales," said Clopin, "and they are tragic. But there is an a hidden city underneath Paris. It is a harbor, a harbor that needs leadership. Who better than I to- _Agnes_!" There, in the midst of the campsite, was Bernice's daughter. She stood there, streaks of grime covering her face and twigs stuck in her tangled hair, looking as frightful as some unholy specter. Agnes scanned each face before focusing solely on Clopin. With a sob, the child hurled herself into the gypsy king's arms.

"They don't want me," she wailed. "They don't love me. So I ran away. Don't send me back!"

Clopin knew exactly to whom child was referring to: Bernice's relations. Likely they punished the girl for the crime of being a bastard. He grimaced. How badly had they treated the child? It must have been brutal, considering how she was willing to follow the caravan. "Hush, child. Clopin will protect you."

"They told me that Mama deserved to die. They said that I was a reminder of my mother's sins. They said that you and Mama were lovers and I thought maybe you were… You were…"

"Your father?"

Agnes perked up hopefully. "Are you?"

"No." When the girl's lip quivered, Clopin added quickly, "Your father was a cowardly man who was unworthy of your mother's affection. He certainly does not deserve the honor of being your father." He kissed her forehead.

"Could you maybe pretend that I'm your daughter?"

Before he could answer, a middle-aged gypsy woman approached and gave the child a piece of meat along with a small cup of goat's milk. Agnes tore into the meal ravenously. Clopin was well aware that the entire tribe was listening. Undaunted he said, "If truth be told, I do consider you as my daughter. I have for a long time now."

Agnes took a large swig of milk. "Then why did you leave me?" There was no mistaking the indignation in her voice.

Clopin abhorred the idea of leaving Agnes behind. What kind of man was he to forsake a child who had already lost a mother? But what choice did he have? Bring the girl with him, raise her like a gypsy then stand aside and watch her be persecuted because of it?

"Because I thought you would be better without me," he answered straightforwardly. "Gypsies live a hard life and I am a poor man who cannot give you the life you deserve." He saw the anxiety in the child's face. "But," he added with a grin, "We gypsies make the best out of life. We live in a whirl, invisible wings on our feet, a world of color and excitement and, of course, puppets."

The angst was still there. "You're not going to leave me again, are you, Clopin?"

Clopin did not answer. He instead took hold of the girl's hand. "Here, let me show you something."

He directed the child to a lone cypress tree where his fingers brushed against the strange engraving that had been carved into the bark. "It's a map. It shows that we are going in the right direction. See here?" He held up a lantern and pointed to a cross. "That's the cathedral. And this-" His fingers tapped against an X. "This is where we're going. Look, child." Clopin withdrew an amulet from around his neck. It depicted the same symbol that had been carved into the tree. "Every gypsy wears one." He removed it, placing the talisman around his adopted daughter's neck. "You're one of us now."


	3. Chapter 3

_Disclaimer: I do not own Hugo's Hunchback of Notre Dame nor do I own the Disney version. _

**May 1470**

Agnes was out in public, scrambling about to gather the coins that the spectators threw, or "harvesting the crops," as Clopin liked to put it. Two gypsy women danced, their skirts flaring out and the copper adornments on their headdresses glimmering in the afternoon sun. The one who wore the lemon-yellow frock was called Halima; the gypsy woman garbed in shimmering blue was Rakia. All the gypsies had exotic sounding names, which made Agnes think that hers was uninteresting in comparison. A gypsy man whose name Agnes did not know played a lively tune on the pipes; the women kept up with the music. Their bare toes marked the ground in rhythm to the beat, sending out clouds of dust as they danced. It was the six-year-old's duty to collect the money. She picked up coins from off the ground, placing them in a tambourine. Agnes looked up at a girl her age as she reached for a small silver piece . She was amazed. She thought only grownups dressed so fine and suddenly Agnes became conscious of her raggedy garb. The golden-haired girl tossed another silver piece; Agnes quickly fetched it like a dog retrieving a bone.

"Don't give your money away like that, Fleur." The mother tugged at her daughter's hand. "They're gypsies. Give them one coin and they'll rob you of a hundred more." She rounded on Agnes. "Go on, shoo!" The lady took hold of her daughter as the child cranked her head back to stare at Agnes with engrossed interest as though the gypsy girl was some unidentified species of human. They proceeded through the crowd of onlookers, neither one of them noticing when a piece of jewelry landed in the dust. But Agnes did. She snatched it up from off the ground like a bird swooping upon a grasshopper. The clasp must have broken, but that did not matter. Agnes turned the trinket this way and that just to see how the shimmering white stones flashed like fire and ice.

"Look what _that_ gypsy girl has, Mama!"

"Fleur, _come _along! I am not concerned with some gypsy brat!" Yet she still turned around, her aggravated expression turning into a look of scandalized fury. "My bracelet! The gypsies stole my bracelet!"

Agnes's head shot up upon hearing this acquisition. "I didn't!" she protested. "It was on the ground!"

At first it was nothing more than murmurs that buzzed through the crowd. Just seconds ago they were amused by the entertainment. Now they were horrified. Gradually the mutterings grew into loud, heated accusations.

"Thieves!"

"Witches!"

The music stopped; the gypsy man playing the pipes lowered the instrument warily. The gypsy women ceased to dance and backed away. They were like deer pursued by the hunter's dogs. The mob advanced and the gypsies bolted. Rakia snatched hold of Agnes's arm, dragging her away. The four of them darted in and out of the crowded streets, dodging past horse carts and sidestepping civilians. The gypsy woman unintentionally lost her grip on Agnes when they rapidly swerved to elude the pursuers. "Keep running!"

Agnes ran. She darted into the alley, striving to keep up, not noticing the broken wagon wheel. She tumbled and scrambled out of the way to avoid being stampeded by what was left of the pursuing mob. The gypsies did not know that she had been left behind. Agnes breathlessly stood there with a bloodied knee. She apprehensively emerged from the alley and into the city square that was overshadowed by Notre Dame. Looking up at the cathedral Agnes remembered Clopin's past advice.

"Remember, my little lamb," he had said to her, "if you are ever alone and afraid, and I am not there, go into the sanctuary. The archdeacon will protect you when I cannot." The archdeacon, it was said, was a benevolent, kindhearted man and it was rumored that he was the only fellow in Paris who actually had some control over Judge Frollo. Agnes had never seen the Archdeacon, nor had she ever seen the judge, but she heard Clopin speak about them both. Imagination lead her to view the men as two opposing forces, an angel and a demon doing battle.

Agnes hurried to the church and tugged open the heavy doors before rushing into the quiet sanctuary of the cathedral. The only light came from the candles and the giant rose window. Tinted light sparkled across the floor, creating a kaleidoscope of colors. The church smelled of incense, and white lilies adorned the altar. Agnes was dazed by the imposing interior. She remembered going to Mass with her mother, but it was just a humble little chapel in the country.

Agnes found an isolated corner and sat down with legs bunched together and her flushed face resting on top of her knees. The diamond bracelet was still clutched in her hand. It had brought bad luck, this dazzling piece of jewelry, and Agnes hurled it away before it could taint her even further. The church bells began to ring inside Notre Dame. They weren't the deafening, thunderous sound of heavy iron bells. Instead they were softer, lower… The cadenced chimes slowly rang in a steady rhythm, similar to the beating of a heart.

Agnes sat there, waiting for Clopin. Her tired eyes closed and soon she fell asleep.

It was dark by the time Agnes woke and she was frightened by the shadowy cathedral. Notre Dame was a frightful place now. The glorious rose window had turned black and threatening, ominous even, while the candlelight created orbs that danced chillingly against the stone walls. Agnes was scared. Scared of the darkness, the silence, the feeling that her foster father had forgotten her... She did not understand why it was so dark; Agnes had always imagined that the cathedral would be illuminated by a mystical glow. Perhaps God had abandoned her; that would explain the lack of light. Perhaps Clopin had abandoned her too. Agnes thought of the stories Clopin told to her and the other gypsy children, stories that involved the spirits of the dead. Mindful of those tales, Agnes knew that phantoms were hiding behind every shadow, phantoms that would attack the unprotected child. Her fears were confirmed when the tomblike silence was broken by the sound of approaching footsteps.

"Clopin?" Agnes called out.

The footsteps were louder now.

"Clopin?" She cried out to the intimidating darkness though she knew that the approaching figure, whoever it may be, was _not _her foster father. Agnes began to cry. "_Clopin? _CLOPIN!"

"No, no, don't cry like that…" It was the voice of a boy, whether older or younger, Agnes could not tell. "I brought you something while you were sleeping. Look."

A wooden goblet had been placed beside her, filled to the brim with cold water. Agnes prodded it with a single finger as though doubtful of what she saw, and when the cup did not disappear, the child drank gratefully; the cool liquid trickled down her dry throat.

"Thank you," she said with a watery sniffle. It was a small comfort to know that the voice belonged to someone kind, but she was still frightened.

"We're going to be friends now," said the voice. "The cathedral's your home now too, isn't it? Are you going to live here?"

"My home?" Agnes said shakily. "Live here?"

The voice proceeded to speak of life behind stone walls before adding, "One of these days _I'm_ going to ring the bells!"

Agnes was not listening. Did Clopin really intend for her to live in Notre Dame? He had once left Agnes with uncaring relatives. She had sought their love and found none, which was what prompted her to follow Clopin. He had given his reasons for forsaking her… And yet…. Agnes began to wonder. What if the voice was telling the truth? Did her foster father, whom she loved, deliberately forget about her, leaving her in the care of this unseen presence? But it was not- _could_ not -be true. Agnes leapt up and covered her ears. "No, no, no!" she screamed, stomping her foot with each word. "He promised he wouldn't leave me! He _promised_! Clopin! Clopin!"

"But you'll be safe here," said the voice anxiously.

"I don't care!" Agnes wailed.

"-I can show you Big Marie," the voice said in eager hastiness. "We can tame the birds and the rats. And play games in the towers… I _know _you're a gypsy. So am I. Your father probably deserted you like my mother deserted me. That's what do. They're evil. But it's okay. We can be a family, you and I."

The idea of living out her life in Notre Dame was horrifying and the voice's words only confirmed her fear of rejection. "No, it's not true! Clopin loves me!"

The doors to the cathedral suddenly burst open. "Child!"

Clopin had at last came from her.

"Come, my little lamb," he said as Agnes hurled herself into his arms with wild cry of joy. He brushed back a strand of hair that had fallen across her forehead. "It's time to go home now. It's been a long day for all of us."

"I thought you left me," Agnes sobbed. "I thought I was going to live here forever."

"Nonsense, child! I once swore that I would never leave you, didn't I? So what in Heaven's name gave you the idea that I would just leave you here in the cathedral?"

Agnes pointed to the darkness. "The voice told me I was going to live in the bell towers!

The gypsy king smiled gently. "You were dreaming. Just a silly nightmare, that's all! Come on, let's go home. Still," he added with a cautionary expression. "It's not wise to speak of hearing voices. They burn people for things like that." He took Agnes's hand and lead her away.

"But it wasn't a dream!" Agnes protested. "I fell asleep and when I woke up there was water-"

"Likely it the archdeacon who left it there. He's a good man, the archdeacon."

"-And it said that we would train rats and-"

"-There's plenty of rats in the Court that need to be trained first-"

"-And meet someone named Big Marie!"

"Such an imaginative child!" Clopin never could handle being serious for too long. He was now beaming. "Say goodbye to your pretend friend."

"I'm _not_ imaginative! And he _wasn't_ pretend!"

"Oh, so it's a _he, _is it?"

Agnes scowled at her foster father's lighthearted banter. Before they exited through the cathedral doors, the girl turned and cried out, "Goodbye! I'm- uh- going to go home now."

She and Clopin made there way through Paris. Neither one said another word. The gypsy king then halted immediately. A look of revulsion spread across the man's face and he gaped with transfixed eyes. Agnes followed his gaze. Clopin's shock lasted only momentarily; he regained his senses and roughly jerked Agnes around, but he was not quick enough to prevent her from seeing. A shudder ran through the child's frame when she saw the silhouette of a body swaying from the gallows. The head had been covered with a rough sack, but the figure's garments were illuminated by the moonlight. It wore a spangled shawl- a blue and gold shawl that looked oddly familiar. And then Agnes identified the lynched body: Rakia.

Agnes now knew. She now knew that evil was out there- not some pretend evil that one would hear in one of Clopin's outlandish stories about ghosts and goblins, but real, genuine evil. The horrors of reality were far worse than any superstitions concerning the unknown

Together Clopin and Agnes made their way to the Court of Miracles, both of them grateful to return to the safety of the catacombs.

And now at last Agnes understood why the gypsies hid underneath the ground.


	4. Chapter 4

_Disclaimer: I do not own Hugo's Hunchback of Notre Dame nor do I own the Disney version. _

**February 1474**

"It's a threatening world out there," Clopin said to Agnes, "but I'm not going to deny you freedom because of it. It's our God-given right to see the sun and breath the same air that other men breath. We should not spend our entire lives hiding underground. We are not moles, but people."

She was allowed to venture outside the Court of Miracles, but first Agnes had to prove that she could defend herself. That, or quickly sidestep any imposing threat. Clopin gave Agnes continuous instructions on how to evade arrest and interrogated her on just how she would react in different scenarios. He even employed a gypsy boy to poise as a cutpurse the first time Agnes was given permission to leave the Court without an escort. Thinking that this was some common street thief, she defended herself by piercing his hand with a dagger. It was not a deadly weapon, scarcely more dangerous than a cactus thorn, but it was enough to draw blood. Agnes apologized profusely upon learning the boy's identity. Clopin, however, praised her capability, announcing that she had passed the final test, and afterwards gave the boy a handful of coins as though that might compensate for his bleeding fingers.

"But remember," Clopin said to Agnes, "it would be unwise to pull a stunt like that with a soldier. Keep your distance. If you see a soldier, flee. Don't linger. Otherwise he will find an excuse to arrest you. Yes," he added upon seeing Agnes's look of shock, "even children are arrested."

Agnes was permitted to roam freely after that. She was not so courageous the first few times she walked alone through the Parisian streets. Agnes loitered close to the cathedral, prepared to take sanctuary at the first indication of danger. Presently Agnes became braver and she understood why gypsies claimed that they did not fare well behind stone walls. She savored the taste of freedom. Agnes relished the feel of a cool, early morning breeze, the warmth of the summer sun and the sensation of raindrops splattering against the skin. Occasionally, Agnes visited the outskirts of the city and lounged in the tall grass, lazily watching the sky. But she always remained vigilant.

The first time she saw Judge Frollo was during one of these outings. She was making her way back to the Court with a handful of wildflowers, passing by Notre Dame when she heard the whispers uttered by inconspicuous members of the Court. "There he is, there's the judge. Don't make eye contact." Sure enough, Judge Claude Frollo was exiting the cathedral. Agnes's first reaction was utter disbelief. _That _was Frollo? That skeletal, gray-haired man? _That_ was the one who was now a part of gypsy superstition, the fiend gypsy mothers often threatened their misbehaving children with? The man did not look intimidating. Still, Agnes was wise enough to dart behind a brick wall as his carriage rolled by.

As unimposing as Frollo appeared, only a fool would underestimate him. Just months ago he had ambushed a caravan of gypsies as they attempted to enter the city. They were rounded up and arrested, but one of them, a girl called La Esmeralda, evaded capture by plunging into the Seine and swimming underwater. She appeared in the Court of Miracles alone, sodden and bedraggled, and it was Clopin who questioned her. Upon learning that the girl was the daughter of a distant cousin, the gypsy king decided to provide for the twelve-year-old. That's how Agnes got stuck with a foster sister.

She grew to detest La Esmeralda. While Agnes was envious of the older girl's already profound beauty, Esmeralda resented Agnes's relationship with Clopin. Agnes was well aware that the orphaned Esmeralda secretly wanted a parental figure. The older gypsy's need for a father figure was surprising. She was astonishingly streetwise and was remarkably independent due to her own ability to thrive in such a hostile world. Sometimes Agnes sensed a bond between Esmeralda and Clopin. Perhaps it was due to their proud gypsy bearing or perhaps it was because of their fervent thirst for justice. They were both his foster children, but Clopin and Esmeralda were not exactly like father and daughter. They were more like… Brother and sister maybe. Or perhaps they were more like uncle and niece. It was difficult for Agnes to describe, not that it mattered. Agnes would resent _any_ bond between Clopin and her rival. She possessed a deep rooted fear, a fear that involved Clopin casting her aside in favor for a more worthier daughter. Perhaps it was silly, but that did not prevent Agnes from zealously protecting her role as the gypsy king's daughter.

The first fight she and Esmeralda got into happened early one winter morning. It started when Esmeralda approached an ancient gypsy known as Emmanuel. "Tell my fortune, Emmanuel."

The vibrant gypsy clothes Emmanuel wore greatly conflicted with his gray, bearded face, but there was a youthful twinkle in his dark eyes, a spring in his step. Old Emmanuel was one of the few gypsies who publicly gave fortunes, but this was done out of eccentricity, not bravery. But it seemed to be quite safe. His premonitions were preposterous and highly questionable, and everyone, even those who hated and feared gypsies, knew that the old man was harmless. For some reason the community did not feel threatened by the elderly gypsy's fortune telling; it was nothing more than the zany ramblings of an old man.

"Of course, my beauty." The old gypsy took Esmeralda's hand and studied her palm. "You will be empress one day,"

Agnes sat down as well, elbowing Esmeralda out of the way. "Tell my fortune now!" she exclaimed with impatient eagerness and smiled affectionately at him.

Emanuel took her hand as he had Esmeralda's. "The small curvature of this line tells me that you will wed a high ranking official in less than a decade."

"The wife of a high ranking official, huh?" Esmeralda sneered. "Too bad you won't be empress."

"And I suppose you will be?" Agnes retorted icily. Nettled that Esmeralda's fortune was better than hers and resentful because Emmanuel had addressed the older gypsy girl as "my beauty," Agnes began to detest Esmeralda more than ever.

"That's no way to speak to the empress. Why don't you bow down to me, little girl?" Esmeralda derided with snooty bossiness.

"Like hell I will!" Agnes snarled. "Empress, hah! Who ever heard of a gypsy empress? You have a better chance of swinging from the gallows!" And then using Esmeralda's personal weakness as a weapon, Agnes added spitefully, "It doesn't matter anyway because at least _I _have a father. Everybody knows that Clopin loves me more than he does you." Thinking that she had won the argument, Agnes sauntered away.

"I can't understand why he adopted you," Esmeralda called after her in a tone that was equally cold, "especially since you are not a gypsy. Besides, everyone knows that I'm prettier than you are, and that includes Clopin!"

"Girls, you mustn't treat each other so meanly," Emmanuel reprimanded futilely. "Especially during times like this." But his request fell upon deaf ears.

Agnes's fists clenched angrily. Like a clever duels-man Esmeralda had returned the assault, aiming a similar emotional blow towards her opponent's own vulnerability.

Her response to Esmeralda's stinging remarks was an angry slap across the gypsy girl's sneering visage. Esmeralda replied with a silent punch to the face. Both girls began to fight, screaming insults, hitting and pulling hair. Emmanuel stood helplessly by, pleading for them to stop and wringing his wrinkled hands together.

Clopin and another gypsy rushed forward and pulled the girls apart.

"Cease fighting, both of you!" Clopin was uncharacteristically livid.

"It's my fault," Emmanuel said forlornly, springing to the children's defense. "I shouldn't have foretold their futures." The old man glanced at the gypsy king, then at the fuming and bruised children, and back again at Clopin.

"Nonsense!" Clopin's angry façade softened. He grinned reassuringly at the old man. "You're not to blame- you can't help it if these two little monsters can't get along- Agnes! Be still" he barked when he saw the girl aim a kick at Esmeralda.

Agnes wiped away the blood that flowed from the corner of her mouth as she made her way to her sleeping quarters, pushing aside the tapestry and sitting grumpily on the pillows that made up her bed. _Stupid Esmeralda_, she thought angrily, gingerly touching her swollen lip. _I wish she never joined us! _

_Author's Note: I always considered Esmeralda as a remarkably strong and amazingly noble character. But she's twelve in this chapter and to give her a mature, fully developed personality would be ridiculous. She's been through a lot. She's confident. She's tough. But she's still a child. And it's not like Agnes is some poor, innocent victim of Esmeralda's wrath- She's a regular little snot in this chapter. I basically made Esmeralda and Agnes act like little brats just to show that both girls have got a lot of growing up to do, especially Agnes. I also wanted to show that these are children who basically grew up in the streets and not some castle. Naturally they are not going to behave like little princesses. _

_I would like to mention that this chapter gave me a lot of grief. I honestly don't care for it. But I didn't want Esmeralda to just pop out of nowhere. Originally this chapter involved a romantic relationship between Clopin and Esmeralda's mother. There was a mass execution and Esmeralda's mother along with Emmanuel are among those who are hanged. But then I realized I was making a habit out of killing off my characters. So I decided to make Clopin and Esmeralda distant cousins. _

_Reviews will be greatly appreciated. Thank you. _


	5. Chapter 5

_Disclaimer: I do not own Hugo's Hunchback of Notre Dame nor do I own the Disney version. _

**August 1478**

A cluster of young gypsy women stood nearby, all of them chatting happily about domestic life. Agnes heard fragments of the conversations. "Yesterday morning he…" "Walked on her own…" "Burned last night's supper…" Agnes had once been friends with these girls. As children they had sat together and applauded Clopin's puppet shows; As older girls they had stood in clusters to giggle at boys. But now their conversations revolved solely on husbands and children, entirely dull subjects that Agnes took no interest in. They often attempted to include Agnes, but Agnes, tired of listening to discussions that she could not contribute to, withdrew. Agnes now passed by her former playmates without uttering a word.

She made her way to through the Court, joining Esmeralda as she argued with an ancient woman over a large bundle of fabric remnants. "That's a ridiculously high price! Are you mad? You didn't pay for it! You just collected it from the trash heap behind the tailor's shop!"

"If you want to rummage through the tailor's leftovers," said the old woman, "go ahead and do so. If not, than pay the price."

Esmeralda bit down on her lip and gazed at the bundle of colorful fabrics longingly before making her decision. "Fine!" she snarled as she placed a few copper coins in the crone's withered hand. Esmeralda rounded on Agnes. "Well, are you going to help me or not? A third of this belongs to you, you know."

"As bossy as ever," Agnes said dryly.

They took the heap of fabrics and rifled through it, arguing over who got what color and mutually agreeing that Clopin would get whichever pieces that they did not want. Agnes settled for green, thinking that it would bring out the green of her eyes. ("Of course you'd want _green_," Esmeralda had said. "Matches your jealous disposition.") Esmeralda opted for violet. ("Oh, of _course_ Her Majesty would choose the color of royalty," Agnes remarked.) However, they both battled over the rose-colored scrap that would be used to make a bodice. Months ago, Esmeralda would have given Agnes a black-eye in exchange for a bloody lip. Now the girls made a pact; Esmeralda would have this piece if and only if she was willing to trade the copper coins that adorned the hem of her current skirt.

"Spoiled little brat," Esmeralda grumbled. She began to cut away at the threads that secured the ornamental bangles.

"Vain, miserable hag," Agnes hissed.

Her former friends were nearby, doting on the newborn infant that the youngest of them held. Gypsy women married young and at fourteen Agnes was at a marriageable age. A golden hoop was now dangled from her left ear, marking her status as an adult. Agnes looked at her childhood playmates and frowned. Was that why she now spent most of her time with Esmeralda? Did their lack of a husband create a sort of bond between them?

"I'm _glad_ I'm not married," Esmeralda sneered. She too was looking at the young mothers. "I refuse to be tamed like all the others."

"They look happy though," Agnes commented, attempting to hide the envy in her voice.

"It's a charade. Do you think Talaitha, with her middle-aged husband, is happy? Or Kizzy, whose husband flirts with every girl he sees? What about Peneli? Her husband spends every cent on cheap wine."

"What about Dunicha, whose husband treats her like a holy relic? Or Orka, whose husband prevented her from being arrested by using gold to bribe a soldier?"

"Okay, _they_ are an exception," Esmeralda said reluctantly.

Agnes took the shears, cutting through the moss-green fabric as she thought of her recent suitor. She shuddered. He was only interested in Agnes because Esmeralda had rejected him. "I don't want to marry for the sake of marrying. But what about you, Esmeralda? Is there any fellow here that you fancy?"

A dreamy expression spread across Esmeralda's dusky face. "No, but if I could pick anyone to marry, anyone at all, it would be a warrior, a soldier in the king's army perhaps. Not to fight _for _me, but rather to fight _with _me. We'd battle side by side, defending the innocent."

"Who do you think you are? The Maid of Orleans?" Agnes asked cynically. "I never imagined _you_ of all people dreaming about a knight in shining armor." She wanted to add, _"What's wrong? Gypsy men aren't good enough for La Esmeralda?"_ but reframed. "Fall in love with someone outside the tribe," Agnes commented instead, "and Clopin will disown you."

"I admit it's silly and girlish," Esmeralda fumed. "And just the fact that I told you shows how stupid I am. I should have known better. But don't you dare think that I spend all my time daydreaming about knights and princes. I'm not _that_ empty-headed." Her indignant expression softened. "So what about you? Anyone you fancy?"

"No," Agnes said slowly. "There isn't. But if _I _were to choose someone… Well, I'd choose a man who.. who would treat me like _that_!" Agnes pointed to Dunicha and her husband; the man was kissing his wife's cheek. There was so much tenderness in that simple, loving act. Agnes flushed at her confession, but she was secretly glad to have someone to tell her girlish thoughts to.

"Oh, I forgot to tell you," Esmeralda said with a grimace. "Another suitor is meeting with Clopin later today." Agnes groaned.

She sat in her side of the tent that afternoon, listening to two male voices coming from the other side of the tapestry. Clopin was one of the voices she was listening to; the other belonged to the potential suitor. It was more credible that it was Esmeralda who had captured this suitor's interest. Esmeralda sat with her, not particularly worried, though her clenched fists and furrowed brows were a strong indication that she was angry. Clopin, as patriarch of the hearth that both teenaged girls shared, had the authority to arrange a marriage without her consent. But Clopin was an unorthodox leader and, in the end, the gypsy king allowed Esmeralda to have a final say. Still, Esmeralda resented having men haggle for her and often swore that one day she would rebel.

"If a man is interested in me," she often said, "then he should approach me first and _then _speak with Clopin."

The suitor was now bargaining with Clopin.

"This is my offer," he haggled, and the sound of coins was heard. "All this in exchange for the oldest girl."

Agnes glanced at Esmeralda; she was now grinding her teeth together. Agnes wondered if today was the day her foster sister would finally revolt.

"That is a high offer, my friend."

"Well, she is a beautiful girl."

"That she is," Clopin agreed. His agreeing words were polite enough. His tone, however, was an implication that he disapproved of this man despite the large bride price he was willing to pay. Clearly he resented the fact that this suitor was more interested in Esmeralda's beauty than he was in her other merits.

"So do we have a deal?"

"That is Esmeralda's choice," Clopin said coolly. "Esmeralda, can you come here?"

Esmeralda rose obediently and sighed reluctantly, pushing aside the dividing curtain.

"Daughter, will you take this man for your husband?"

"I do not want an old man for a husband," Esmeralda sneered, her gravelly voice pompous and her disdain obvious.

There was a brief spell of silence. "Are you just going to sit there and allow a woman to address me like that, Clopin?"

"The girl has a right to speak her mind, Coppernole," the gypsy king replied. "And she is right- you are far too old for her."

"What about your other daughter?" Coppernole demanded.

"She too has a right to speak her mind. Agnes, come! Esmeralda, you may go."

Esmeralda had to have the final word. "I've had enough, Clopin! I've had enough of you calling me forward as though I'm some trained dog and I've had enough of men bargaining for me as though I'm some thoroughbred horse! The next time a suitor comes, you better tell him to say something to _me_ first." She yanked aside the curtain, nearly colliding into Agnes. The two teenaged girls exchanged glances as they passed one another.

Agnes eyed the potential suitor evasively. He was not an old man, but he was older than Clopin by at least a decade. Streaks of silvery gray ran through his black hair, giving his attractive face a distinguished look. Yet his advancing age did not curtail his self-impotence; evidently he had no qualms about pursuing a young bride who had just now advanced into womanhood. The uplifted chin and thrown back shoulders suggested a proud bearing. _No, not proud_, Agnes decided. Clopin was proud; this man was downright egoistical.

Coppernole elegantly rose from his seat, tenderly taking hold of Agnes's chin, momentarily caressing her cheek with a single finger.

"She's an attractive girl," he began, "but not beautiful like her sister. Comparing Agnes to Esmeralda is like comparing a crystal to a diamond. She seems healthy and strong, and I heard that she can cook quite well. I heard that she is quite the artist too. Did you make this tapestry, my dear?" he asked Agnes, fingering the drapery that depicted silver crescent moons and round golden suns. "Oh? Well, it's quite good- You're very talented." Coppernole again turned towards Clopin. "But considering she is not a gypsy and will only give me mixed brats… Well, I'm going to have to lower my offer."

It _was _like bartering for some horse. Esmeralda had been right. She felt like some mare being appraised by a trader, criticized for her inability to produce admirable foals. Agnes had felt a twinge of pride when Coppernole had praised her craftsmanship, but now wanted to spit in his face. She wanted to claw his pompous face off, tell him that she would rather be Frollo's wife than his. But before she could, Clopin put a hand on his foster daughter's shoulder. "She's worth just as much as her sister."

"Be reasonable, Clopin," Coppernole argued. "The girl has been accepted by the tribe. We taught her our customs and we offer her our protection. And considering that we normally shun her kind- What more do you want from us? It's one thing to accept her. But to expect a man to pay a normal bride price for a woman without a drop of gypsy blood? That's absurd!"

"Do not lie. You are using Agnes's personal history as an excuse. You think that Agnes isn't worth as much simply because she isn't as beautiful as Esmeralda."

"Clopin-"

"If you were truly concerned about her heritage, you would have decreased the offer _before _you asked to see her."

"Now, see here, Clopin-"

"Agnes is worth just as much as her sister," Clopin said firmly. "Agnes, you may go!"

She shot a poisonous look towards Coppernole before returning to her side of the tent. Agnes was furious that her sister had overheard the humiliating ordeal and she deeply resented the expression of sympathy Esmeralda now gave her. Whether Esmeralda's pity was because of what Coppernole had said or whether it was because Agnes had failed to stand up for herself, she did not know.

_Author's Note: I feel as though I've got to defend this chapter. I know it seems kind of pointless. But Coppernole's "comparing Agnes to Esmeralda is like comparing a crystal to a diamond" relates to the gypsy woman's prophecy of "a crystal cherished as though it is the rarest of treasures" from chapter one. So this chapter does have a purpose. _

_I know it's extremely creepy that a man in his forties is interested in marrying a fourteen-year-old girl. I'm not an expert on history, but I know that things like that were acceptable centuries ago. I recently read a historical novel where an empress arranged a marriage between her teenaged daughter and a sixty-year-old man. _

_I would like to mention that I borrowed the names Dunicha and Orka from Susan Kay's Phantom. _

_Also, I want to thank Yunagirlamy for her kind reviews. I really appreciate it. _


	6. Chapter 6

_Disclaimer: I do not own Hugo's Hunchback of Notre Dame nor do I own the Disney version. _

**January 1479**

Agnes listened to Clopin's story as she held a six-month-old baby in her arms. It was not her child, but rather the offspring of a young mother who was momentarily occupied. Agnes liked children, and now with the baby boy secured on her hip, she swayed from side to side while listening to her foster father. She was fifteen, too old for such childish nonsense, but Agnes never could resist story time. A group of gypsy youngsters sat with transfixed expressions and unblinking eyes.

"There are worse monsters than Frollo," Clopin said softly, the crackling fire creating a dramatic shadow on the wall behind him. His graceful hands waved through the smoke, generating more dramatic thrills. Each child cringed upon hearing Frollo's name. Clopin saw this and grinned, his black eyes glittering mischievously. He theatrically rose from his seat.

"Oh, yes, children, it is true. A demon lurks inside the Notre Dame towers. Hunchbacked and deformed, ugly and unholy, with a single malevolent eye and hair like the fires of hell… Look at the cathedral towers and you might catch a glimpse of him." Clopin threw his clock dramatically around him and circled the fire with hobbling steps, hunched over with his face screwed into a grotesque expression. "He patrols the rooftops at night along with the spirits of the dead… Searching for naughty children… LIKE YOU!" Clopin's hand unexpectedly shot out and on it was a puppet- a crude, comical version of the humpbacked demon he had just described. The applauding children laughed and Clopin bowed.

The gypsy mothers chuckled in spite of themselves, annoyed at Clopin for filling their children's heads with tales of child-snatching demons, but, like Agnes, unable to resist the charms of a gifted storyteller. They came and collected their children, returning to their own sleeping quarters. The mother of the baby Agnes held came also. Agnes kissed the boy's round cheek before placing him into his mother's arms.

"There you are!" Clopin shouted when he noticed Agnes.

"I've been here," she said. "Nice of you to tell horror stories to children, by the way. I'm sure their mothers will appreciate it when they have nightmares tonight. And what the hell is that thing?" Agnes snapped. Clopin had pulled out one of his newest creations, a puppet that strongly resembled Judge Claude Frollo.

"Oh, that's lovely," Agnes said sardonically. "Are you trying to get yourself killed?"

Clopin shrugged nonchalantly. "Where is your sister?"

"Out," Agnes answered. "Dancing. Earning coins."

"And when will _you_ start earning a living?"

"Soon, but I won't be dancing. I hate dancing- I'm no good at it. I prefer juggling." To demonstrate her skill Agnes began to juggle with three rotten apples, but a sudden commotion startled her and she dropped the fruit. Apples rolled in every direction.

"Yes," said Clopin good-humouredly, "I can see how skilled you are. But truthfully, Agnes, you need to earn some sort of living. You say that you are not ready, but that is not the full truth, is it? I understand the true problem- You're fearful of what will happen to you out there."

Agnes bit down on her lip; what Clopin said was true. Agnes relished the feel of cool air on her face, the sun shining on her skin, and escaped outside whenever she could. It was one thing to remain inconspicuous, but to _actually _draw attention to herself… Agnes thought of Rakia with a shudder.

Clopin lifted up her chin and smiled gently. "I know that you've seen things, horrible things, but you must be brave, my child." Clopin then turned towards the sound of the turmoil. Instantaneously his face cracked an even larger grin. "Ah ha! A visitor!"

They gypsy king sauntered with gleeful steps to the Court's façade where a trembling man stood bound with ropes and flanked by two other men whose faces were hidden underneath skeleton masks. He was young, blonde and pale, and, judging by the filthy rags he wore, was as poor as any gypsy. His cheeks were hollow, like he had gone without food for many days.

The men in the skeleton masks shoved the prisoner towards Clopin. "Bow before our king!"

The terrified man dropped to his knees and bowed his head; the crowd laughed.

"Welcome!" Clopin greeted heartily. He too laughed at the kneeling man. "There is no need for formality, not in the Court of Miracles." His smile was welcoming as if trying to put a guest at ease. "You're the first visitor we've had in a long, long while. It's reason to celebrate. Pity that you won't be able to join us. But you will be able to _hang _around."

A shudder convulsed through the young man's frame upon hearing the gypsy king's taunting pun. "Please, I never meant to trespass!" he sobbed. "I beg you, have pity!"

Clopin ignored the hisses that buzzed through the audience. "I suppose I _could _release you… Where would you go? Back to whatever Godforsaken hovel you came from? You _could_ tell Frollo our whereabouts. He'd give a handsome reward for it, you know. The idea of eliminating gypsies is _far _more glorious that mere gold. Think of the things you can buy! Meat with every meal! Good wine! Hot bread!" An odd expression crept across the starving man's face and he almost reeled at the notion of money and food. Clopin did not miss this and smiled with satisfaction. He had successfully planted that idea into the prisoner's head and now there was no doubt that the prisoner, if set free, would indeed reveal the Court's location to Frollo. This was exactly what Clopin wanted; he now had an excuse to hang the man.

"I'm afraid, my unfortunate fellow, that I cannot allow that to happen."

"But I won't," the prisoner begged. "I won't!"

"Gag him!"

The skeleton men stuffed a rag into the prisoner's mouth then fitted a noose around his neck. The watching crowd applauded and cheered; the young man thrashed about fruitlessly.

"No, no!" came a shrill sounding squeal. Clopin had yet another one of his puppets, this one being a miniature version of himself. The children began to laugh. "No, he is innocent!"

The children laughed harder and the condemned man stopped struggling, appalled by how the gypsies were now making a mockery out of his execution.

"Silence!" Clopin roared at the puppet. He struck its head; the puppet whimpered comically.

"But he _is_ innocent!" the puppet protested one final time.

Clopin nodded and ran his hand indifferently along his goateed chin. "True. He _is _innocent. After all, he didn't _mean _to enter our home uninvited, which, by the way, is quite rude." Clopin cast the prisoner a stern look like a parent chastising a child for lack of manners. "But yes, he _is_ innocent. Yet _hundreds_ of innocent men and women are killed _every_ day. So that tells me that innocence must be the very worst crime of all."

The gypsy king almost pulled the lever, then hesitated. "Wait… I forgot one of our customs…" He nudged the prisoner with his foot. "Are you willing to marry a gypsy, a so-called Daughter of Egypt? Became a gypsy yourself?" Muffled words were heard. "I'll take that as a yes." Clopin addressed the crowd. "Hello, ladies! Here's your chance! A man for nothing! Is there anyone here willing to marry this unfortunate fellow?"

This was an absurd custom that Clopin had made up on a whim, just something to torment the victim even further by cruelly giving him false hope. Clopin knew quite well that no woman would respond to this marriage offer.

"Hang him!" the women demanded. "It will amuse us!"

The prisoner, who seconds ago seemed optimistic, crumbled in despair, and Agnes, affected by his youth and sadness, turned away. She considered marrying him, truly considered it, but in the end decided against it. A forced marriage would not make him loyal to the gypsies and she would be putting everyone in jeopardy if she saved the man's life. Agnes feared that he would betray them to Frollo at the first given opportunity. She refused to take that risk.

"Going once!" Clopin now shouted gleefully. "Going twice! Going, going… Gone!" There was a brief pause. "Bad luck, my unfortunate friend." The crowd suddenly cheered and Agnes knew that the prisoner was dead.

_Author's Note: This is one of my better chapters. I analyzed the heck out of the Disney version while writing my rough draft. While watching the Court of Miracles scene, I kind of got the impression that Quasi and Phoebus weren't the first people to trespass into the gypsies' domain. I thought it would be interesting to add this chapter because it shows how Clopin can abruptly change from entertainer to executioner. The only problem is that the "will be able to hang around" was the best pun I could come up with. It's nowhere near as good as the "good noose tonight." Oh well. _

_This chapter is obviously based on the part in the book where Gringoire is almost executed. (No, the prisoner isn't Pierre, just some nameless character.) You might wonder "Why did Clopin ask this guy about marrying a gypsy woman? Why didn't he ask Quasi and Phoebus?" I already thought of that. Clopin was eager to kill them. ("We like to get the trial over with quickly because it's the sentence that's really the fun.") He was in no mood to be as ruthless as he was in this chapter. _

_The prequel portion is almost finished- Just one more chapter after this. Then it will be a midquel and it will actually have cliffhangers and a plot. This is more of an explanation of why the characters are the way they are. Dull, but necessary. Anyway, I'm eager for Feast of Fools… And yes, Quasi will be appearing soon. _


	7. Chapter 7

_Disclaimer: I do not own Hugo's Hunchback of Notre Dame nor do I own the Disney version. _

**December1479**

Snowflakes were drifting from the darkening sky. Agnes trembled and glanced down. She normally went without shoes, but today she wore them. Unfortunately, the leather was now sodden and Agnes was sure that her feet were crimson underneath. It felt as if her toes were being pierced with needles. Her ears also ached from the cold; Agnes tied a scarf around her head in a hopeless attempt to shield them from the icy wind. Esmeralda, walking beside her, was shivering also. Their threadbare cloaks provided them with little warmth.

"I can't wait to get home," Esmeralda whispered and her breath rose up in smoke. "I just want to wrap myself in blankets and sit in front of a fire. What about you, Agnes? Agnes?"

But Agnes was not listening. Her light eyes scanned everyone in proximity, overlooking the men in work clothes and the women in peasant dresses, only to focus on two approaching ladies: wealthy woman bundled in warm furs. Because they were oblivious to the cold, they actually seemed to enjoy the snowfall. Agnes stepped forward imploringly. "Please, madams… A few pennies?" They regarded her unsympathetically. "Please… I am so hungry."

They did not drop a penny into her outstretched hand. Instead the women gave her something better: a single silver coin. Agnes sputtered her gratitude like a pitiable street urchin and smiled a cocky smile the moment the two woman departed. It was not exactly great acting, but this felt like some sort of achievement after all her failed attempts to earn money that day.

"Must you do that?" Esmeralda snapped. "Begging is so vulgar."

"How else am I earn money?" Agnes retorted. Her icy, pinched face now burned from Esmeralda's criticism. "I've given up on training Djali- That damn goat hates me. I can't train animals. I can't sing-"

"Or act. Or play an instrument. Or perform the simplest magic trick," Esmeralda said with exasperation. "You're not exactly the greatest pupil in the world."

"And you're not exactly the greatest teacher."

Agnes learned two things that day: First, she was an untalented street performer; second, she deeply resented Esmeralda's guidance. It was her foster sister's idea to venture out onto the streets that morning. Because of Esmeralda's prompting, Agnes first tried singing and was told by many that a crow sounded better. She attempted to make Djali carry out a few simple tricks, but the stubborn animal rammed her with its horns, much to the amusement of spectators. (The fact that Esmeralda found this comical didn't help matters.) So after a day of being booed, laughed at and forced to listen to Esmeralda's nonstop suggestions on how to do better next time, Agnes was in no mood for nitpicking. The hollowness of her belly only worsened her mood.

"You're not _entirely_ hopeless," said Esmeralda. "You're… just a challenge." She then brightened. "What about juggling? Have you considered that?"

"I still drop whatever I'm trying to juggle." Agnes sighed as she tried to ignore the throbbing pangs of hunger that ripped across her belly. "I just might have to resort to feigning blindness if I don't find my niche soon. I hope I do find _it _soon. I _need_ to make money. I am so tired of being hungry."

Esmeralda's hand dipped into her pocket, pulling out a piece of hard bread. "I was saving this, but if you want…"

"First you tell me not to beg, then you offer me your scraps? What am I? A dog?"

"Fine, don't eat it." Esmeralda's fist closed and then opened, releasing the crumbs onto the snow-covered ground. "At least the pigeons will have a good meal tonight."

"They are too," said Agnes and she pointed to a lit window.

The two gypsy girls paused to observe the happy scene inside a grand house. A well-to-do family, all of them possessing round, healthy faces, sat at the supper table. Food was laid out on the tablecloth: hot, buttered croissants, roasted goose, goblets of wine… The mother was slicing the goose with a knife, the tender meat practically falling off the bone. Agnes took a step forward. Then another. And another. Her face was almost pressed against the glass when the family noticed her. She saw the woman address her husband, who nodded at whatever she said. Agnes watched as they prepared a plate, piling it high with food. And then the door opened.

"Come and eat. We know that you are hungry." Agnes did not understand why these people were being so charitable. Perhaps it had something to do with the Christmas season. She took a tentative step forward, her hunger wrestling with her distrust, much like a hungry wolf approaching a rabbit being cooked over a flame . "That's right. Come and eat. Just leave the plate when you're…" The couple suddenly became aware of Esmeralda and their kind, benevolent faces turned hostile. "What do _you_ want, gypsy?"

"Nothing," Esmeralda spat.

"If you're planning to rob this poor girl-"

"That's _my_ sister. Why would I rob her?"

"Your _what_?" And the couple whirled on Agnes. "Tell us the gypsy girl is lying."

"No…" Agnes said slowly. "It's true."

"What are you playing at? We thought you were a beggar, not a gypsy! Who do you think you are, masquerading as someone above your station?" They could have just taken the plate away, but instead they knocked it from out of Agnes's hands, and, just to further show their contempt, stomped on the food they had offered before entering their house. Agnes did not care what Esmeralda thought of her, not when her insides were empty from continuous hunger. She dropped down on her knees so that she could greedily consume the trampled remnants.

"Agnes, stop it!" Agnes ignored her and continued to devour the fallen food with crazed determination; Esmeralda wrenched her arm. "For God's sake, show some restraint!"

Agnes got up unwillingly. "I don't understand." Tears of frustration and bitterness pooled in her eyes. "Why would they show me food and then do- do _this!_" She gestured to the remains of the flattened meal.

"_I_ understand," Esmeralda said resentfully. "They didn't know you were a gypsy until I said something. The cloak was covering up your gypsy garments." She again tugged on Agnes's arm. "Come on. Let's go. Clopin's waiting."

"But I have money now. We can buy something to eat…"

"Look around you, Agnes. Everything's closed for the day."

They tugged off their wet cloaks and shoes immediately upon returning home. Clopin fussed over them like a mollycoddling mother and, at the same time, scolded them for wandering around in the cold snow.

"I know it was foolish," Esmeralda admitted. "But I thought it was important for Agnes to find a way to make a living. We just lost track of time."

"Any luck?"

"None," Agnes spat. "Well, just this…" And she gave the silver coin to Clopin.

"But we're going to try again tomorrow, aren't we?" Esmeralda said firmly and she ignored her younger sister's look of annoyance. "Is there anything to eat, Clopin?"

"This is it," he said and he held a chunk of bread. Clopin withdrew his knife and cut the loaf in thirds, handing each of his foster children a slice. It so stale that it almost hurt to swallow. The gypsy king watched the two girls, still shivering from the cold, as they devoured the meager dinner. He took his own portion, sliced it in half, and gave them each a second helping.

"Clopin-" Agnes began to protest, but the gypsy king held up a single hand to silence her.

"Eat."

She did, the hard bread almost tearing at her throat.

"Clopin?" she said again, only more tentatively.

"Yes?"

"Tomorrow, I _promise_ you, I will do better. I will bring home some money. You see, tonight Esmeralda gave me an idea. Look at my face. I don't have gypsy features. Look at my skin. It's not that white skin highborn ladies prize, but it's lighter than yours, Clopin, and considerably lighter than Esmeralda's. I don't look like a gypsy. Of course I don't look like a gypsy. Why would I? I'm the daughter of a gadji and God only knows who my father is-"

"All I know about your bastard birthfather was that he was Portuguese," Clopin said through clenched teeth. "At least that's what Bernice told me-"

"I don't care about _him,_" Agnes interrupted. "And besides, that's not my point. People- people outside the Court of Miracles, I mean- are easily fooled. They see the dark hair and the colorful attire and automatically assume that I _am _one. But if I dressed in a simple peasant's gown and removed the earring… No one would know about my upbringing. _Do_ you know what that means? It means I can work for a living. I can be a servant for some rich family. I can work in the kitchens. I can do their laundry-"

"NO!" Clopin bellowed. "No daughter of mine is going to work like a drudge!"

"But-"

"I would rather stave than see my child toil!"

The family sat around the hearth that night. Clopin, leisurely leaning back against some pillows, sewing a new puppet that bore a distinct resemblance to King Louis. Esmeralda, meanwhile, was teaching Djali to dance on its hind legs. Agnes watched the little goat with resentfulness. Even Djali could dance better than she could. Agnes glanced down at the wooden spheres she juggled with and back again at the goat. Dancing would earn far more money. And Agnes realized what she had to do. Later that night, when Esmeralda was not around and Clopin was snoring on his side of the hearth, Agnes approached a group of middle-aged gypsy women whose performing days were over.

"Teach me how to dance," said Agnes to them. "I've got to learn."

"Why are you asking us?" said one. "Why aren't you asking La Esmeralda?"

"Because she just spent the entire day trying to help me find my performing niche," Agnes replied, "and I'm still as untalented as ever."

"So you're seeking help from those who's been around the block. Very well. Can you do a cartwheel?"

"A cartwheel?" Agnes echoed. "No…"

"Can you stand on your toes? Do back flips? Handsprings?"

"No, I can't do any of that…"

The woman with the most gray hair waved her hand dismissively. "Neither could we, not even when we were young."

"So you _can't_ teach me to dance like Esmeralda?"

"Child, we are _not_ miracle workers."

Still, the gypsy women agreed to teach Agnes. They instructed her daily, commenting on her progress and sneering whenever she made mistakes. Agnes hated it, hated the idea of dancing publicly. But Clopin earned money by entertaining the crowds with his puppet shows and Esmeralda earned money by dancing. And still there were several hungry nights. The fact that Agnes contributed nothing prompted her to carry on with the lessons.

Agnes appeared one morning in the city streets, alone, with golden bracelets on her arms and her hair braided and coiled around her head, revealing the hooped earring. She was dressed in traditional gypsy attire. Agnes slowly lifted her arms and jangled the tambourine she held as she began to dance. A crowd gathered round. Agnes wanted to flee, but she forced herself to smile sweetly at the audience. _Her _audience. She cavorted about, twirling and spinning, giving glimpses of her legs. On the outside, she appeared lighthearted and joyous; inside, Agnes was writhing in mortification. The coins came, as did the hooting from the male spectators.

"Isn't she delightful? A regular gypsy strumpet!"

"Nobody dances like a heathen!"

"Dance for us, little Egyptian! Dance!"

It was not young, handsome eligible young men who said these things. Rather they were middle-aged and potbellied, men who possessed doughy features and teasing smirks. There were poor people in this crowd as well as rich. But they all shared the same blatant attitude towards the dancing gypsy girl. Pretty words were reserved for proper young ladies; lewd, vulgar comments were meant for lowly street performers.

There were also the whispered warnings.

"Don't stand to close. She'll rob us blind."

"Thieving skills must be mediocre if she's got to dance for a living."

"I just hope this little alley cat doesn't cut my purse."

And still she danced. Pieces of silver and copper, even a few small gold pieces, were thrown. When the routine was done, Agnes scrambled about, collecting the money, her face bent low so that she could hide her blushes. The ridiculing remarks did not end.

Agnes quickly escaped into an empty alleyway once her earnings were gathered. She leaned her back against a stone wall, sliding to the ground when her knees buckled. Agnes began to cry. Dancing like that made her feel degraded and she wondered how Esmeralda could endure doing that every day. A mortified Agnes wanted nothing more than to hide in the alley forever. She closed her eyes. _God, give me strength. Let me be as brave as Esmeralda. _She then grimaced. She could be brave too, if she wanted. Hadn't she once snuck out at night, slithering over mud and grime, just to search for Clopin when she was just a small child? Wasn't she willing to publicly humiliate herself just to ensure that her family would have enough to eat? And if Esmeralda could dance on the streets like that, then so could she. Agnes lifted her head with grim acceptance. She determinedly left the alley, brushing back the last tear, and moved to a different sector of Paris. Again she danced.

When Agnes returned to the Court of Miracles with her arms laden with food, the older gypsy women smiled approvingly. "So! Unless that was stolen, we'd say your first day of dancing was a success! With time, you might be chosen to dance at the Feast of Fools."

_Author's Note: Okay, the prequel portion is finished! _


	8. Chapter 8

_Disclaimer: I do not own Hugo's Hunchback of Notre Dame nor do I own the Disney version. _

**January 6, 1482**

Christmas was twelve days ago and tomorrow the holiday season would legitimately be over. The Feast of Fools functioned as a last hurrah. The citizens disregarded their daily responsibilities so that they could act like carefree merrymakers. Agnes now made her way through the city streets, ignoring the surrounding jollity as she searched for Esmeralda. Both she and her foster sister were to dance on this holiday. Agnes made a small grimace. She still hated dancing in public, but at least she had lost her fear of it.

Every year a gypsy girl served as the unofficial Queen of Scarcity. Clopin, as Master of Ceremonies, decided that it was fitting for the King of Fools to have a queen. While the Lord of Misrule was expected to be loathsome, the Queen of Scarcity was expected to be deprived, the poorer the better. "After all," Clopin said, "This is Topsy- Turvy Day. Who better to serve as queen than a humble dancer of the streets?" It was the queen's duty to dance the first dance and then crown the King of Fools. Agnes was the one selected last year, which was surprising considering how Esmeralda was both older and far more experienced. Agnes had no idea why that decision had been made. She later discovered that it was entirely Clopin's doing, that he was attempting to boost her morale. The attempt failed. But Clopin, refusing to accept defeat, decided that she should dance again this holiday, right after Esmeralda's routine. "Esmeralda will be this year's Queen of Scarcity," he had said, "And you, my little lamb, will be the Princess of Paupers!"

Agnes now crossed the cobblestone street as a stormy-gray carriage slowly rolled by. Soldiers encircled the carriage and Agnes guessed who sat inside. She spied _him_ through the window, haughty and pallid, with his forbidding stone-like face staring ahead as if oblivious to the festival outside.

Agnes's pale eyes darted to the soldier closest to her. It was a new one, and in no way did he resemble Frollo's usual minions. No, this one had a proud bearing, probably a captain instead of a soldier. Agnes frowned. It was rumored that the old captain of the guard, Captain Capet, had deliberately allowed a gypsy captive to escape. He had earned Frollo's wrath and it was said that he now rotting inside the Palace of Justice. Agnes studied the new replacement. The man was no fresh-faced youth, but he was still handsome, his only flaw being a nose that was slightly hooked as if it had once been broken. The captain was adorned in golden armor that reflected the sun, a blue cloak majestically tossed over a single shoulder. The effect was stunning and Agnes was temporarily dazzled. The handsome captain saw the girl in gypsy garments staring at him with her lips parted in wonder. He returned her gaze with obvious indifference. Agnes flushed; she felt like an ass.

When the carriage passed, Agnes found the brightly colored pavilion. She trotted past a hooded figure wearing a grotesque mask, ignoring the figure's graceless steps, and pushed aside the tent's flap. Esmeralda sat in front of a mirror as she placed a brass tiara on her head. _That_ was the queen's crown, a cheap accessory made out of brass instead of gold and pieces of red glass instead of rubies.

The older gypsy saw Agnes in the mirror's reflective surface. "You're dress is over there." She pointed to a green and white frock. "And you need to do something with your hair. Braid it or something." She stood and moved aside so that Agnes could seat herself in front of the mirror.

"I hate dancing," she grumbled. "Especially at festivals." Agnes glared at Esmeralda. "You could have supported me, you know. I wouldn't have to do this again if I hadn't lost my argument with Clopin."

"Stop whining. Did it ever occur to you that Clopin wants you to dance because he's _proud _of you? Besides, dancing at the Feast of Fools is an honor."

"Some honor," Agnes said as she braided her hair and fastened it with metallic pins; when the sun shone, it would look as though she was wearing a crown of stars. She thought of the soldiers who would be patrolling the streets and shuddered. "I should warn you- Frollo's here, at the festival."

"He's here every year," Esmeralda said. "You ought to know that. Frollo always appears at the Feast of Fools. Always sitting in his place of privilege, looking down at riffraff such as us. Maybe he'll leave by the time the dancing begins, like he does every holiday." She slipped behind a curtain. "Speaking of dancing, which one of us is going first?"

"You are. How many times did Clopin tell us? The queen dances. The king gets elected. Then I, the Princess of Paupers-" she said this with scathing indignation "-must dance. _You ought to know that_." Agnes successfully mimicked her foster sister's tone.

"Don't be a brat," Esmeralda's voice snapped. "I don't have time to argue with you."

She emerged wearing a red and blazing pink frock. Agnes eyed her foster sister with envy, still unable to overcome her jealousy over Esmeralda's exotic beauty. Agnes's reflection mockingly showed the face of an unexciting, very commonplace young woman. Even the metallic plates failed to give her an extra sparkle. She slowly continued dressing her hair with a heavy sigh.

Outside men hooted and cheered as Esmeralda danced for them. Still in her everyday frock, Agnes peaked through the tent's opening to witness the older gypsy's tantalizing dance. Her eyes scanned the captivated faces of the men in the audience until a blinding metallic gleam caught her attention. Agnes saw that the captain watching Esmeralda in favorable admiration. And there, to his left, was Frollo. Even from her tent Agnes could see Esmeralda's spellbinding effects on the judge. He was still as rigid as he had been before, but only now his gaunt face contorted with a dangerous combination of desire and righteous aversion. It disturbed her, yet in an odd sort of way Agnes was amused. Who knew that the blameless, faultless judge was capable of something as un-saintly as desire?

_But still, _she thought, _nothing good can come from this. _She hoped that Frollo would leave by the time it was her turn to dance. To her horror, Esmeralda suddenly flounced towards him, nearly perched on his lap and enticingly wrapped her scarf around his neck. She seductively drew his face closer and closer to hers and then, just when their lips were about to touch, Esmeralda playfully tugged the judge's hat down over his eyes.

"What the devil?" Agnes hissed out loud. Esmeralda was supposed to tease the King of Fools, not the judge! It was, after all, a tradition for the Queen to mockingly beguile the King of Fools. Last year, Agnes had thrown herself at the Lord of Misrule's feet and kissed his boots as a sneering tribute. Agnes watched as Esmeralda skipped away, casting the judge an exaggeratingly sweet smile while batting her eyelashes. Agnes knew then that this was all an act, that Esmeralda was pretending to confuse the judge with the King of Fools. The crowd realized this also and laughed at the gypsy girl's impudence.

And then Esmeralda's dance ended. The King of Fools was about to be elected.

_I must hurry, _Agnes thought. Soon it would be her turn to dance for the newly elected sovereign, a slow, provocative routine, much like Salome's tantalizing dance before King Herod. She knew what was expected of her. With a shudder, Agnes remembered how last year's king gawked at her with unmistakable lust. He was a revolting old fool who belched and passed wind.

A sudden unanimous gasp from outside interrupted Agnes's gloomy thoughts. Something unexpected must have happened for she heard Clopin address the crowd with a showman's gift of improvisation. There were more cheers and joyful hurrahs; the people had chosen the new king. Clopin's voice rang out, "We never had a king like _this_ before!" He was a crowd pleaser, whoever he was- the most ugly of them all, better than last year's king.

With another shiver of disgust, Agnes placed the last metallic pin into her hair.

_Arthur's Note: First of all, I would like to thank Yunagirlamy, Renarde Rouge and Sword Tiger Kitty for their kind reviews. I really appreciate it. _

_I would like to mention that the following five or six chapters take place during the movie. After that, the timeline isn't as sporadic as it was before. It's no longer necessary for me to mention the precise date. _

_Reviews will be greatly appreciated. _


	9. Chapter 9

_Disclaimer: I do not own Hugo's Hunchback of Notre Dame nor do I own the Disney version. _

**This chapter takes place immediately after the previous chapter. **

Esmeralda stepped into the tent, a shaking hand pressed against her forehead and her dusky face red from embarrassment. She wordlessly removed the cheap tiara, flung it across the tent and began to pace back and force agitatedly.

"That was a rather stupid stunt you just pulled," Agnes snapped. "Agitating Frollo like that- What the hell were you thinking!"

"Shut up!" Esmeralda snarled. "I regret nothing!"

"Yeah, well, now _I _have to go out there! You'll be safe and sound inside the tent while _I'm _out there with an angry Frollo! Thank you _so _much." She glared at Esmeralda. "I _saw _what you did. It's a wonder Frollo didn't order your arrest right then and there. You're supposed to taunt the King of Fools, you know."

Esmeralda crossed her arms defiantly. "I taunted the only _fool _I saw. _He's _the one who should be wearing that jester's cap right now, not that- that…" Esmeralda's expression suddenly crumbled and she collapsed onto a chair. "I couldn't do it! I just couldn't! I _could- not- crown -the- king_!"

"I take it that this year's king is especially ugly?"

"I thought he was wearing a mask. I didn't know, and I pulled him on stage… And when I realized _that _was his face… I admit that I was horrified at first, but then I was ashamed… Clopin had to intervene… And I had to get away. I just _couldn't_ crown him!" Esmeralda said again.

"Who?" Agnes demanded impatiently. "Who's been chosen?"

"The bell ringer of Notre Dame! _That's _who's been chosen!"

"The _bell ringer_?" Agnes gasped. "The humpbacked demon from Clopin's stories? I've never seen him before. I don't think anyone has, come to think of it, or at least not up close. Is he really so ugly?"

Esmeralda let out a humorless chuckle.

"Take a glimpse at him and judge for yourself," she said and she reached for her purple skirt.

Again Agnes looked at the festivities outside. A progression paraded about the Parisian streets and the Lord of Misrule sat in a gaudily painted seat composed of what had once been a wine barrel. Agnes saw the grotesque, camel-like hump and the misshapen features on a face not much older than her own. He was definitely hideous, but certainly did not appear to be malevolent, not at all like the child-snatching monster Clopin often described. Pure joy was depicted on the humpback's malformed visage. Even from a distance Agnes could see how his eyes glistened with exhilaration. The hunchback knew that he was a newly elected sovereign, the jester's cap being a crown and the gaudily painted wine barrel serving as a throne. He had caught on to the rules of Topsy-Turvy Day quickly. Agnes was more unnerved by his happiness than she was by his uglieness. Yes, he was king for a day. Today he would be loved; tomorrow the world would despise him again. Did he not understand that the glory would not last forever?

Agnes slowly began to remove her everyday garment in exchange for the tinseled one behind the privacy of the curtains as a sickness gurgled inside her belly. She always stifled her hatred of dancing in order to perform publicly. But would she be composed enough to perform before the hunchback? Especially when Esmeralda, who was far more daring, couldn't summon up enough courage to crown him?

"To think I've got to dance before him," Agnes muttered and peaked around the curtain. "Wait- he saw _you_ dance, didn't he, Esmeralda? How did he react to you?"

"He bashfully glanced away at first," Esmeralda said slowly after a moment's thought. "But he applauded when I was finished." Esmeralda frowned, raising her fingers to her temple. "It's odd though… Most men stare with lust, but not him. _His _expression… It was a look of innocent admiration… Though I can't imagine him keeping that expression after he sees your little harlot's dance." She then pointed an accusing finger at Agnes. "But don't you dare do what you did last year. Don't you dare mock him by kissing his feet like you did with that nasty old man. That poor boy is too naïve to understand what's happening and you'll just embarrass him-"

Agnes snapped in return, "Do you think I'm that cruel? I saw how happy he was. Do you think I'm cruel enough to humiliate him?"

"No. All I'm saying is tone it down. No dancing like a trollop."

"This coming from you? I saw you out there. If anyone dances like a trollop-"

"I mean it!" Esmeralda snarled.

"Then what should I do?" Agnes demanded. "How can I possibly-" Agnes stopped suddenly. The cheers from outside had suddenly turned harsh and ugly. Both women together turned their heads towards the sound of the the jeers came a tormented, frightened howl pleading desperately for help.

"You don't think there's a flogging, do you?" Agnes said, her voice now high and edgy. "Or a hanging?"

"I'll go," Esmeralda said quickly. "I've already changed clothes- Let me go see what's happening." She left.

Agnes immediately began to change into her tinseled costume with shaking fingers. Outside the dreadful laughter continued.

_Author's note: I always thought that it was interesting how Esmeralda immediately disappears after realizing that Quasi wasn't wearing a mask. _

_Once again I want to thank everyone who has given this story a review. You guys have been so supportive. It's always a joy to read such things and know that my work is being appreciated. Thank you! _


	10. Chapter 10

_Disclaimer: I do not own Hugo's Hunchback of Notre Dame nor do I own the Disney version. _

The ugly laughter and the howling cries unexpectedly stopped. There was now a troubling silence. Agnes held her breath and waited. She heard Esmeralda's voice and, judging by her wapish tone, knew that her foster sister had witnessed something horrible. And then came another voice: pretentious, regal and emitting frosty rage. The coldness of that voice was powerful enough to freeze the Seine. _Frollo._ Esmeralda was openly challenging _Frollo_. Was she mad? He had the authority to execute a gypsy for the least infraction. How would he react to one openly defying him in public? People outside the tent began to mutter, making it difficult for Agnes to listen to Esmeralda's impassioned speech.. She could only make out a few words. "Mistreat… Same… People… Justice… Cruel…" That was followed by Frollo's retort. "Gypsy… Pay…"

Agnes closed her eyes and groaned.

Just then a middle-aged gypsy woman plunged into the pavilion. "Stupid girl is going to get us all killed! Mark my words, he's going to be out for blood! He'll be rounding us up like sheep before we know it! Quick, put on this cloak!" She thrust a ragged mantle into Agnes's arms. "We've got to lie low for a while- Clopin's orders! Be careful coming home- there's soldiers everywhere!" She fled.

Agnes threw the disguise over her shoulders, pulling the hood over her head that was still adorned with metallic plates. Chaos surrounded her when she stepped out of the tent. Acrobats and street performers ran wild. Soldiers were everywhere, just as the middle-aged gypsy had said, and their horses were galloping against the streets, the animal's hooves beating against the pavement. Civilians scrambled to avoid the stampede. Agnes's eyes rapidly searched for one who howled so despairingly and desperately hoped that the poor devil was not someone she knew. Esmeralda was nowhere to be seen, but there on the platform stood the hunchback. Red fluid trailed down his exposed back. For a horrible moment Agnes mistakenly thought that what she saw was blood and that the hunchback had been lashed, but the rotten food at his feet told her that the red liquid was nothing more than tomato pulp. They must have been pelted the bell ringer with vegetables.

_And why? _Agnes thought furiously. _For the crime of being ugly? For being different? _And to think that, just moments ago, he was their beloved king. And now the queen was hiding just to avoid incarceration. The Feast of Fools was supposed to give people like him- _like us, _Agnes amended- a reprieve from persecution. They weren't granted this _one_ day.

A ripping noise came from behind. Soldiers with their swords drawn were tearing apart the brightly colored tent. Agnes scrambled away as a freezing rain began to fall.

Agnes soon discovered that returning home would be next to impossible. Though the Court of Miracles had more than one entrance (dozens of secrete openings to the catacombs were strategically hidden in Paris) the streets were so thick with watchful soldiers that she didn't dare attempt escape. Frollo's guards were harassing citizens, yanking them roughly, demanding to know if they had any connection to gypsies. Soldiers on horseback still galloped over the confetti that littered the ground. Shouts of protest came from all directions.

Agnes noticed a ragged cripple when she cut through a narrow alleyway, the beggar's emaciated legs pathetically bent underneath him, his crutches lying sadly in the muddy street. A bloody bandage was wrapped around one thin arm, but Agnes knew that it was not human blood, but rather blood from a slaughtered pig. The cripple kept his head down and did not bother removing the hood of his cloak when Agnes trotted towards him. But when he spoke, it was Clopin's voice she heard.

"Where our you going, child?"

"I don't know," she whispered frantically. "_They _are everywhere… I've never seen so many at one time. I can't escape." She remembered Clopin's past advice. Composing herself, she casually added in a crisp tone of voice, "Perhaps I will spend a few minutes in church."

"I suggest you stay longer than that." The unspoken warning was there in his words. _Stay in the cathedral until you are certain that all is well. _

Agnes nodded in agreement. "Very well."

Two soldiers were standing at the opposite end of the alleyway; they were watching. Clopin ignored the soldiers and performed as naturally as he would in front of an audience of gypsy children. He began to beg. "Alms? Alms? Charity, if you please…"

This disgraceful spectacle was almost unbearable now. She knew Clopin despised begging and to see her foster father sitting there in the mud and pleading for money- Begging his own foster child for money- was too much. Agnes felt as though she was witnessing something indecent. But if Clopin could overcome his pride, then she should attempt to overcome her dismay. She had always been an unconvincing actress, and now, in a desperate attempt to seem credible, Agnes dropped a copper coin into the cripple's lap.

The soldiers were now accosting a swarthy-skinned woman, demanding to know if she possessed gypsy blood. Clopin took advantage of their inattentiveness; he waved an urgent hand. "Go where it's safe."

"But what about you?" she whispered. "And what about Esmeralda?"

"Go! Esmeralda can take care of herself. I wouldn't be surprised if she's in the cathedral right now." He got up, supporting himself heavily on his crutch, and limped away.

Agnes knew, of course, that Clopin would remain on the streets, pretending to be a beggar and spying on Frollo's minions as they patrolled the streets. He would be watching them carefully, prepared to distract them if they inadvertently came across any of the hidden entrances to the Court. Agnes quickly entered the church.

The rain was falling harder now, striking the rose window. Suddenly heavy cathedral doors opened with a voluble thud. She recoiled and cranked her head over her shoulder like a wary animal. The hunchback was there; Agnes tensely watched as the man sorrowfully shut the door behind him. His torn garment pitifully exposed his bare shoulders and his eyes were closed dejectedly. The hunchback slowly secured the doors then leaned against them with a rasping sob of despair.


	11. Chapter 11

_Disclaimer: I do not own Hugo's Hunchback of Notre Dame nor do I own the Disney version. _

Agnes involuntarily took a step forward; the hunchback turned and saw her. The two studied each other briefly. Agnes saw his abnormalities at a closer range, saw the misshapen nose, the horrid lump above a swollen eye. A well-bred maiden would have covered her eyes; others would have fled or perhaps even fainted. But Agnes was not some squeamish little damsel. Besides, she had already seen his face and therefore his deformities did not come as a shock. She wasn't afraid. Imagine, being afraid of mere deformity! What was so frightening about twisted bones? He had an ugly face, yes, but not an evil one, and Agnes knew that the hunchback would not harm her. She also knew that Clopin's stories about the bell-ringer were utter nonsense. Still, she could not help studying his face with intrigued curiosity. It was unlike anything she had ever seen. The hunchback was aware of her stares and shamefully gathered together his tattered garment then covered his face with his broad hands. It was this heartrending gesture that made Agnes return to reality. Her face became hot with embarrassment. She didn't like it when people gaped at her whenever she danced and there she was, gawking at a deformed man.

"I'm sorry," she blurted out with sincere remorse. "I didn't mean to… I know it's rude to…" Her voice trailed off. He did not seem to be listening.

"You don't have to cover your face," she heard herself say. "I already know what you look like." Now she received a response; the hunchback slowly lowered his arms. Agnes reached into her pocket and withdrew a handkerchief. "You've got some- something in your hair… Here, let me…"

"My son?"

It was a low, soothing voice, yet it made both Agnes and the hunchback jolt in alarm. She dropped the handkerchief; it fluttered to the ground like a broken-winged butterfly. A rotund man in priestly robes came forward. Though his face was etched in concern, Agnes could tell that he was normally a kind-looking man. "My son, what happened to you out there? What did they do to you?" He eyed the pieces of rotted pulp clinging to the hunchback's red hair along with the welts on his arms that looked as though they had been caused by ropes chaffing against the skin. He seemed to understand. The benign face darkened. "Does Frollo know about this?"

"He knows," Agnes said and there was ferocity of her voice. "He was there. I heard him."

The hunchback bowed his head. "I got what I deserved," he said sorrowfully and added, "I will ring the bells now, sir."

"It is not necessary, Quasimodo," the man said with stern kindness. "The people know that today is the Feast of the Epiphany and they know that Mass will be starting soon."

"It is my job." And the hunchback hastened away.

The priest sighed and shook his head dejectedly. "Twenty years. _Twenty_ years and he is as unfeeling as ever," he said to himself. He regarded Agnes momentarily, casting her a welcoming nod and began to light the surrounding candles.

The cathedral doors opened again. Agnes turned, expecting to see Esmeralda. Only it was _not_ her foster sister. Agnes made a choking sound and her fingers rose to cover her wildly beating heart in an instinctive gesture of fear. _Frollo. Frollo in Notre Dame and less then ten feet away. _She immediately secured her cloak, making sure that her outlandish attire was covered and retreated further into the shadowy interior. The priest meanwhile looked from her to Frollo and back again at her. He gave her an inquiring expression, but immediately seemed to understand the reason behind Agnes's terror.

"You will be quite safe, my dear," he muttered faintly. "I do not agree with the judge's persecution of gypsies."

Agnes looked at the man in amazement. He _knew_ what she was... The disguise that fooled so many others did not fool him.

"I didn't do anything wrong," she whispered as though the priest's reassuring words had not penetrated through her head. "Please, sir, don't let him know that I'm here… Please, I beg you…"

The priest nodded. "You have nothing to fear."

Frollo glided passed them, removing his triangle-shaped hat. Agnes cautiously took several steps back.

"FROLLO!" the priest barked harshly. "I saw the boy, Frollo, and I am aware of what happened out there. What is the meaning of this? Why did you not put an end to such cruelty?"

Agnes was stunned by the severity of the man of the church. It just then occurred to her that this was the archdeacon, the very same fellow Clopin often spoke of. He always said that the archdeacon was the only one who dared to challenge Frollo. _Well, him and Esmeralda_, she thought. Feeling quite safe in the archdeacon's presence, Agnes discretely crept forward again. She was almost amused by the archdeacon's chastisement and relished the fact that it was none other than the judge who received it.

"I warned Quasimodo what would happen if he left the bell tower," Frollo now answered composedly. "And what I said would happen happened. The people reviled him as a monster, just as I said they would. He has nobody to blame but himself."

"You could have stopped it-"

The judge's unruffled façade began to waver. "You had me raise him as though he was my son and now you dare lecture me on my parenting?"

"Yes," the archdeacon countered coldly. "Yes, I _am _lecturing you on your parenting, if you can call it that. It's a miracle that boy isn't entirely warped because of your malice. It's bad enough that you have brainwashed him. Do you know what the boy just said to me? 'I got what I deserved.' Because of you, the lad believes that he is a monster and therefore should be treated like one." The archdeacon shook his head repentantly. "I thought perhaps caring for the boy would teach you some compassion, but now I see that I made a mistake, a very grave mistake. I regret it highly." The archdeacon turned his back on the judge and added, "I never should have allowed you to take possession of him. I ought to beg for Quasimodo's forgiveness for what I've done." He paused. "You haven't told him the full truth, have you? You never told him what really happened that night-"

Frollo interrupted him. "You swore to me that you would never again mention the _incident!"_

The archdeacon sighed but did not reply.

Frollo continued to stare at him with undisguised fury. It looked as though he wanted to strike the archdeacon. Abruptly the judge turned his gaze on Agnes. "What are you staring at?"

"Nothing." Agnes looked down at her feet. "Sir."

"Then why are you just standing there, girl?"

The archdeacon turned around. "Leave the child alone, Frollo. She just came from confession."

Frollo's eyes narrowed. "And what was her sin?"

"That," the archdeacon replied grimly, "is between God, her and myself. It does not involve _you, _Frollo." His tone turned gentle. "That reminds me… I never told you what you must do for penance, did I?" he asked Agnes kindly.

For a fraction of a second Agnes stared at him in bewilderment. She then went along with the charade. "No, sir. You didn't." To think that the archdeacon was lying! Lying inside a church! Not only that, but he was encouraging her to lie as well!

"A rosary must be prayed three times a day, once before each meal…"

"Yes sir," Agnes murmured. "I will do as you say and…" She saw that the judge had left them and abruptly dropped the act. "_Thank_ you… I never expected you to lie for me, but still… You cannot imagine how grateful I am. Thank you…"

"I do not condone telling falsehoods," the archdeacon said, "but to hand you over to Frollo would be a much greater sin." He glanced over his shoulder. "I see that Frollo is attending Mass. You are safe now, child." The archdeacon left.

_I'm not staying in the cathedral, not when Frollo's in here as well, _Agnes thought. What if Frollo approached her when the archdeacon was not around? She was never a risk-taker, but now Agnes was willing to take a chance and attempt to return to the Court of Miracles. The entrance behind the Apple of Eve Tavern- That was the safest. The bells began to chime as Agnes exited the cathedral.

The rain still falling and the streets were covered with puddles. Agnes's bare feet sloshed through them, her toes squishing in the mud. There were still soldiers, but not as many as there was before. Agnes made an effort to ignore them but stopped suddenly when three of them were in her path. She considered returning to the cathedral, but decided against it for retreat would only arouse suspicion. Agnes tried to stride past them with unruffled steps as though she was entitled to stroll the city streets like an ordinary citizen. Yet Agnes could not quite control her hasty, dodging steps. Her movements were similar to those of a startled rabbit, and the soldiers, being like a pack of dogs, sensed her terror and surrounded her. Had they been common street thieves, Agnes would have withdrawn her concealed dagger. She had used the weapon before, usually when ragged homeless boys attempted to steal her earnings. But these were soldiers, and threatening them with a weapon was a sure way of getting arrested.

"Please let me pass."

"You seem to be in a hurry."

"That's because I am cold and wet," Agnes replied. "And I really do not care for wandering around in the rain. Now, please, let me pass…"

They laughed at her request. "No, we don't enjoy wandering around in the rain either. Nor do we like patrolling the streets for gypsies who can't keep their mouths shut. It's a rather dull job. But now that we have _you _to entertain us…"

One of them suddenly grabbed her waist callously, his fingers digging into her flesh, and pressed his mouth against hers. Agnes responded by taking a panicked swing at the one who had forcefully kissed her, her fist colliding into his head; he was unscathed by the attack. The others seemed to enjoy her sudden flare of crazed agitation. Unanimously discovering an amusing game to take part in, the one who had kissed her shoved her into the waiting arms of his friend. It was he who tore off Agnes's hooded cloak, exposing what was underneath: a green and white dancing frock, a single gold looped earring and an outlandish headdress of metallic spangles.

"What's this? Looks like we caught ourselves a little gypsy!"

"I'm not a gypsy! I'm not, I'm not!" Agnes shook her head frantically. "It's January sixth! That's why I'm dressed like this, to take part in the festivities!"

For a fraction of a second Agnes believed that they were convinced by her frantic lie and that they would let her go free. Yet one stared at her intently before saying rather quickly, "Wait! I've seen you perform in the streets with the other gypsies!"

"No, I think she's telling the truth. She doesn't have gypsy features," said the soldier who had kissed her. "And look at her coloring. She's too light for a gypsy."

"I've seen brown-haired, light-eyed gypsies before."

"But I'm _not_ a gypsy!" Agnes protested.

The third soldier who until now was silent suddenly spoke up. "I've seen her before. She _is_ a gypsy, I bet my life on it. She danced at the festival last year. Real slow and tantalizing little performance. How can any of us forget? Hell, I even gave her a few gold coins." He grinned at her. "You sure know how to bring out lustful urges, don't you, you delightful gypsy strumpet? Look, see how she blushes!"

It was that blaze in her cheeks that had doomed her. They were all convinced.

"Speaking of Frollo," the first soldier said seriously, "we've got orders to haul in any gypsy we come across."

And before Agnes could run off, before she could even react, her hands were manacled behind her back. "Why are you doing this? What have I done? What crime did I commit?"

"Public disturbance," the first soldier answered simply.

"And likely stealing," said the second.

"Don't forget witchcraft," added the third.

With that, Agnes was hauled to the Palace of Justice.

_Arthur's Note: I've got to admit that this chapter gave me an insane amount of grief. I originally had Agnes say a small prayer while she was in the cathedral, but then I realized I was practically ripping off "God Help the Outcasts." I then planned for Agnes to visit the bell tower, but decided against it because I seriously could not come up with a good reason for Agnes to even go up there._

_I want to thank Renarde Rouge, Sword Tiger Kitty and DemonicBrat13 for their wonderfully kind reviews. _


	12. Chapter 12

_Disclaimer: I do not own Hugo's Hunchback of Notre Dame nor do I own the Disney version. _

The did not interrogate her immediately as Agnes thought they would. Instead she was temporarily tossed in the dungeons to await questioning. She was placed in a cell hardly bigger than a wolf's den and there were chains around her ankles that fettered her to the floor. Agnes cried those first few hours. She was terrified of dying, terrified of what would happen to the others, terrified of the surrounding darkness. It was like being buried alive, like being entombed in a crypt. Depressed and as fearful as she was, Agnes could not help but be surprised by how troubled she was by that. After all, she had spent most her life sleeping in the catacombs. But it was the absence of light and sound that made this underground cell so unbearable. The Court of Miracles wasn't much, but it was home. The Court had always been ablaze with the colorful tapestries that hid the ugly walls. There was always a cheery fire to warm one's hands and there was gypsy music, the sound of pipes or the jangle of tambourines always in the background.

Agnes sat in a puddle of stagnant water that had seeped in, a picture of human misery. Occasionally she would breathe on her hands, hoping that the heat of her breath would thaw out her chilled fingers. She waited; no one came. There was a horrible stench inside the dungeon; it was a revolting combination of human waste, mildew and decay. Time passed and Agnes reluctantly rested her tired head on a pile of moldy straw. She drifted into a restless sleep, only to wake up at the sensation of creatures crawling over her body. Agnes furiously batted them away; several times her hand made contact with a fury body that struck against the dungeon wall with a high-pitched squeal.

After the first few days, Agnes lost track of time. No light could penetrate the dungeon; night and day were the same. The air was stale and rancid; it was almost suffocating. Agnes would have sacrificed anything in exchange for single breath of fresh air; she would have happily given her life just to feel the sun and wind for one blessed hour. Often she laid motionless on the floor for hours at a time, no longer bothered by the creeping mice and rats, and allowed herself to slip into unconsciousness. One a day the jailer fed her. The meal was always the same: a chunk of black bread served with a jug of water. The jailer often left the door open whenever he fed her. Dreadful sounds were allowed to seep in. Agnes was quick to realize that the oppressing silence had been a blessing. For a few horrible seconds, she repeatedly heard the sickening crack of a whip along with screams and guttural pleas. Agnes listened to the sounds of others being tortured and wondered when she would be next.

Once Agnes thought she heard the rattling of keys outside her door followed by an unfamiliar voice barking, "Lieutenant! What are you doing?"

"Ah, Captain, I just want to amuse myself with the gypsy whore we've got locked in there-" There was an outraged roar of protest. Something hard crashed against the wall.

"YOU WILL NOT TOUCH HER, UNDERSTAND?" the first voice commanded. "Violate her and I will have you flogged for disobeying orders." There was another metallic sounding thud. "Is that clear?"

"Yes, Captain Phoebus," the other voice wheezed.

But Agnes might have been dreaming this.

The door did open shortly after this and a man was tossed in. Agnes shut her eyes, pressing herself closer to the wall to squeeze out of sight. She heard her fellow inmate protest. "I have done nothing wrong! _They_ have done nothing wrong! This is madness!" Then came the clanks of shackles followed by the sound of the dungeon door slamming shut. Agnes opened her eyes again.

For a moment neither she nor her fellow prisoner spoke. At last he said, with his voice trembling, "I know there's someone else here." Agnes did not reply. "How long have you been here?"

She swallowed and said hoarsely. "Since the sixth of January."

"Eight days then." A pause. "What was your crime?"

"I don't know," she whispered.

"You sound young."

"I'm almost eighteen."

"You also sound scared."

"There are creatures that crawl over me. I am cold. I am wet. And…" Her throat tightened painfully. "I am worried about my family."

Chains rattled and she heard the man give a sigh in defeat. "Now, now, everything will be all right…" Agnes heard a match being struck. There was a small circle of light. Agnes blinked and looked at the one she had been conversing with. She recognized the heavy face of the baker. He looked petrified despite his reassuring words. Agnes could see that his skin was as white as flour.

"Oh," the baker said softly to himself as he eyed her outlandish attire. "A little gypsy girl."

Agnes sniffled and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

The light extinguished.

"Don't cry, dear one. I don't have anything against gypsies. Why, I was arrested for hiding them from Frollo inside my bakery."

She cringed upon hearing Frollo's name. "Has he… _killed _anyone?"

"No," the baker said firmly. "There's been countless arrests and God only knows how many homes he's torched. But no deaths. At least not yet anyway," he muttered darkly.

The prison door was flung open. Soldiers were standing in the threshold. "All right, gypsy." She felt their hands on her legs as they unbolted the shackles. The soldiers made no attempt to unfasten the manacles on her wrists. Viciously they yanked her from off the ground and jostled her forcefully towards the exit.

"Hey, now, not so rough," the baker protested. "She's only a child."

Then came a grunt of pain. The baker said no more.

Agnes made a worried movement towards the injured baker, but the soldiers again wrenched her towards the exit. They marched her down the corridor, stopping at a cell so that they could peer through the bars. Agnes lifted her eyes then lowered them again with a violent shudder. A man laid face down, his sliced back exposed and oozing blood. A massive amount of flies were swarming about the dead skin, crawling over the multiple wounds. "Looks like Captain Capet is with us no more."

"That's what happens when one gets flogged almost every other day. I'm wondering when Frollo's going to become disappointed with the one we've got now. Mark my words, the captain will be in here any day." His tone was morbidly jolly.

"I don't doubt it any. Particularly since he's been showing more and more sympathy towards gypsy vermin. That's what happened with Capet. Showed signs of leniency. I'm surprised that the captain hasn't been dismissed already, especially since he failed to drag that _one_ out of the cathedral. You know who I'm talking about, the little hellcat who started this whole mess."

The one soldier shook his head. "I don't get it myself. I don't get why Frollo is so hell bent on capturing that gypsy girl. He claims she's a witch and that he's protecting Paris. Codswallop, in my opinion. If you ask me, his intentions are _far _from virtuous."

The other soldier sneered. "Frollo? Don't be daft! That old boy's as pure as freshly fallen snow."

"I'm the one who told the judge that the gypsy girl escaped from the cathedral. I witnessed him caressing her scarf, witnessed it with my own two eyes!" He chuckled. "Maybe that's why he ordered us to bring _this _one-" The soldier jerked his head in Agnes's direction. "Obviously he's got a hankering for gypsy flesh and needs a substitute since he can't get his hands on the emerald-eyed gypsy." He took hold of Agnes's chin. "Look here! _This_one's got green eyes too, but they're no emeralds."

The second soldier sniffed loudly. "If that was truly Frollo's intent, you would think he would have her bathe first."

They were still laughing as they again shoved Agnes forward. "Come on! Get moving!" She was dragged up a winding staircase. Agnes could barely move; her legs felt as boneless as a worm's body. She was prodded forward into a room. The sun was burning garishly through the windows; the prisoner's chained hands rose to protect her eyes; the overwhelming glare was painful to her. Agnes lowered them when she felt that she could endure the brilliance, and she was relieved when she saw no whips or hot coals or other torture devises. But that relief was short-lived for the prisoner's body suddenly convulsed in terror.

Agnes found herself staring at Claude Frollo.

_Author's Note: This is mainly why I considered rating this story M. Personally, I don't think it's too terrible, but others might disagree. It's a prison after all, and not some country club. I've got to admit that this was rather difficult to write because I hate violence. Sigh. I just hope all of you can forgive me for what's going to happen in the next chapter. _

_Captain Capet is briefly mentioned in Chapter 8. There's a scene in the movie where Phoebus walks into the Palace of Justice and you hear a man getting whipped off-screen. Frollo casually comments that he wasn't satisfied with the last captain, which kind of gives the impression that the ex-captain is the one being tortured. I couldn't help wondering what the heck this guy did to earn Frollo's wrath, which prompted me to create this very minor character. _

_Like I said, I analyzed the heck out of the movie. _

_I got the idea of the imprisoned baker from listening to Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dream Coat. Originally I described the baker having a red beard. Thank God I watched the movie again because I saw that the baker was actually beardless. I spent a good five minutes wondering why the heck I thought he was a redhead until realizing that I got the HOND baker confused with the baker from Beauty and the Beast. _

_Once again I want to thank everyone who reviewed the last chapter. It means a lot to me, it really does. Thank you! _


	13. Chapter 13

_Disclaimer: I do not own Hugo's Hunchback of Notre Dame nor do I own the Disney version. _

The prisoner and the judge scrutinized on another. Agnes found herself cringing underneath his unholy, hate-filled glare that impaired her far more than the glaring sun. She had the capability to overcome the burning rays of light, but Agnes realized that she could not prevail over judge's awful gaze. Nor could she look away; she was like some sparrow looking into the eyes of a snake. Loathing radiated from Frollo like heat billowing from an intense furnace, unleashing its flames and burning everything around it. There was disgust mingled with that hatred, as though Agnes was something foul and repulsive. Agnes, standing there in the unwashed, putrid remains of what had once been a festooned dancing frock, flinched. She remembered how, as a child, she had found Frollo to be entirely unthreatening. All she saw then was a gaunt, gray-haired man. How naively stupid she had been!

Frollo leaned back against his throne-like chair. He was the first to break the silence. "Do you know the gypsy Esmeralda?"

"Yes," Agnes muttered.

Frollo seemed almost surprised by her unhesitant truthfulness. A pleased smile then tugged at his tight mouth and he pressed his long fingers together. "Very good, gypsy. You seem to value your life. Now tell me where Esmeralda is hiding. And remember that I have the authority to decide whether you live or die."

Agnes shuddered. What he said was true. He could order her execution and no one, not even the archdeacon, could prevent it from happening. The chains around her wrists rattled as a result of her violent trembling. Agnes briefly recalled the harsh words Esmeralda had slung at the judge on the Feast of Fools and she was ashamed at how spineless she was in comparison. She tried to compose herself, taking in several deep breaths. Agnes thought of her underground cell and realized that death was far more preferable than returning to that lonely and dismal hole.

Frollo, weary of her delay, spoke up. "Thirty pieces of silver if you tell me where I can find her." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a satchel, tossing it at Agnes's feet where it fell with the unmistakable tinkle of money. She looked down at the coins spilling forth as though she had never seen the glimmer of silver before. An odd thought crept through her head.

"He honestly expects me to be like Judas…" she whispered out loud.

"Excuse me?"

Agnes did not dare repeat what she had said. Instead, she muttered, "I do not know where Esmeralda is."

She waited for Frollo to proclaim her death sentence as retribution for her lack of knowledge. Instead he asked, "What is your name?"

She gulped and muttered hoarsely, "Agnes."

"A surprising name for a gypsy."

"I'm not a gypsy," Agnes responded hastily. Clopin appeared in her mind's eye, shaking his head remorsefully as if to say, "_Is this how you repay me for raising you as my own daughter? Is that what I taught you, to deny the very people who loved and protected you_?"

"I mean, I was not born a gypsy," Agnes amended.

"Yet you obviously lived amongst them," Frollo callously challenged, "participating in their godless ceremonies, most likely tampering in witchcraft as well." He again cast her a quizzical, lingering glimpse. His expression softened and it seemed that his hatred became less pronounced. "Agnes… _Who_ gave you that name?"

"My mother," Agnes answered.

"I must say I was expecting something more barbarous." Frollo paused briefly. "I assume you were named after Saint Agnes, virgin martyr and patron saint of young girls? Tell me, when is her feast day?"

"January twenty-first. My date of birth." She frowned then, wondering why Frollo was asking her such questions.

"You say that were not born a gypsy. Yet a gypsy's wickedness can spread like fire, burning and contaminating all those who are pure," the judge said softly. "I myself have been snared by a gypsies' spell and I seek to free myself from this enchantment. And you, Agnes… I shudder when I think of what wicked traits you must have learned from those people. Yet I can overlook your devilish upbringing and bring you salvation if you are willing to cooperate. Help me cleanse the city by telling me where I can find the Court of Miracles. Do as I say, and God will forgive your sins."

Agnes shook her head. "I do not know _where_ the Court of Miracles is," she fibbed. "I never left much, and when I did, the gypsies blindfolded me. They blindfolded me whenever I returned too. They didn't trust me because I'm not one of them."

Frollo leaned forward upon hearing this hurried pretense and in doing so Agnes instinctively shrank back. "You're lying."

She could not help shuddering once again.

"Why do you lie to save a godless race? Is your immortal soul that unimportant to you? It is my duty to rid the world of vice and sin. It is what Christ has called me to do."

"What Christ has called you to do…" Agnes mumbled dully. She again thought of Esmeralda. Brave, fearless Esmeralda. Well, she could be just as daring, just as outspoken as her foster sister. This was her chance to redeem herself.

Agnes straightened and held her head up to return the judge's gaze. She responded clearly, "I always thought that Christ dined with outcasts. If you want to be like Christ, then you should be associating with us, not persecuting us. But no, instead you give yourself a reason to eradicate us by creating trumped up charges of witchcraft." Frollo's face was lethal upon hearing this truthful accusation. She should have quieted, but Agnes had one more comment to make and could not stop herself from blurting it out. "If Christ was in Paris, today, right now, and cured a blind man, you'd probably mistake that miracle for witchcraft and accuse _Him_ of sorcery."

Her tone was not as furious as Esmeralda's had been on the Feast of Fools, but it clear and passionate at least. Yet her statement maddened him more than Esmeralda's had, making Agnes almost regret saying those things. The haughty and dignified judge lost his composure; he leapt from his seat in an animalistic rage, the chair crashing to the floor behind him.

Frollo pointed a condemning finger and said, "I have devoted half my life doing God's bidding." He clouted her then. "How dare you preach to _me_ about Christ!" Another cuff, harder then before; this time his ring sliced open her lip. "How dare you speak such sacrilege in my presence!" A fist collided into the girl's head, sending her to the ground. He kicked her once in the ribs then stared down at the quivering form.

The madness vanished as quickly as it had come. With unsettling composure, Frollo knelt down and cradled her bruised head.

"Such a fool you are," he whispered desolately, "to allow those gypsies to corrupt you. I could have saved you from the fires of hell had you agreed to help me." Frollo rose like a un-furrowing shadow, walking away from the girl who laid there, bruised and bleeding, on the titled floor. Agnes's ears followed the sound of the judge's retreating footsteps. Her body, sore and battered as it was, relaxed; she had survived. But just before he exited the room, Frollo again spoke to Agnes, seizing her with unthinkable terror.

"There is a price for blasphemy, girl. A wicked tongue must be removed." He paused briefly. "Consider yourself fortunate that I am allowing you to live."

_Author's Note: I've got to admit that I was just dreading publishing this particular chapter. I just hope everyone can forgive me. I'm not a sadistic person, I'm really not, but I like doing the unexpected. I originally wanted to make Agnes a mute from the very beginning, but I thought it would be more tragic if she lost her ability to speak during the middle of the story. There's another reason why I made her a mute, but it will spoil future chapters. _

_Also, the only reason why Frollo allows Agnes to live is because he believes that she is under Saint Agnes's protection. _

_Well, at least now everyone can understand the gypsy woman's prophecy of "a knife and a voiceless nightingale" from chapter one._

_Once again, I always appreciate reviews. _


	14. Chapter 14

_Disclaimer: I do not own Hugo's Hunchback of Notre Dame nor do I own the Disney version. _

Agnes was only hazily aware of her surroundings. She was in a different cell, one that was bigger, and manacles no longer bit into her wrists and ankles. The freedom of her limbs did not matter. Agnes laid there, as stationary as a rag doll, ignoring the food that had been placed beside her, even ignoring the throngs of prisoners that were suddenly being herded inside the chamber. Agnes kept her eyes closed and continued to lay there as if dead, hoping that death would come claim her. The floor vibrated with their footsteps and she could hear the rattling of shackles. She could hear curses and screams, moans and cries. There was now too much noise and her head throbbed. Agnes's colorless lips then parted; a trickle of blood dripped onto the flagstone floor. One of the captives unintentionally prodded her with his foot. She did not moan, only turned her head agonizingly to the side.

"Agnes?" came a muffled voice and then louder exclaimed, "Clopin! It's Agnes! She's here!" The voice became soft again. "Dear God, look at the bruises on her face…"

The Court… The entire Court of Miracles, every last man, woman and child, must be in the Palace of Justice. _But how_, she wondered fuzzily, _how did they get here?_ _How did Frollo find the Court? _She tried to convince herself that this was all a dream; it seemed as though she was in an everlasting nightmare.

Agnes felt hands tenderly lift her up into a sitting position, felt warm arms around her and she knew that it was Clopin who cradled her. He held his foster daughter as he had one that night so long ago when Agnes had first wondered into the gypsy camp. Clopin now pressed his lips to her forehead. Agnes twitched, opening her bleary eyes to focus on Clopin's tormented features highlighted by the candle someone held. Every crinkle was highlighted and there were several gray hairs that gleamed like silver in the candlelight. He looked so _old_. Much older than thirty-seven. Old and grieved and forlorn.

Agnes tried to speak; a hoarse croak come out instead.

"You, fetch that jug of water! Hurry!" The gypsy king again kissed her forehead. "Agnes, Agnes, _why_ did you leave the cathedral?" A second later Clopin took her head and gently turned it upwards. Water was dripped onto her dry, sealed lips. "Agnes, you must drink."

Fingers gently pried open her mouth. Too weak to protest, she complied and the water was poured into her barley opened mouth. The barest trickle ran down her parched throat. Agnes subsequently coughed, sputtering out some of the metallic tasting liquid. There was a sharp intake of breath; Clopin must have seen. She shut her eyes; hot tears welled underneath the closed lids. Agnes heard Clopin's grieving lamentations and his outraged curses. He unleashed his righteous fury, cursing God, cursing Frollo, cursing his fellow man… But what made the nightmare worse was when Clopin exclaimed for all to hear, "Look what they did to her! Her tongue! They cut off her tongue!"

Agnes's fingers wrapped around his wrist and she shook her head; Clopin became silent, but did not relinquish his hold.

She did not know how much time passed after that. It could have been a minute; it could have been several hours. Her clouded mind was so obscure, so hazy, that it was impossible to tell. Retreating footsteps followed by a sense of increasing spaciousness meant that the cell was currently being vacated. Agnes tugged at her father's sleeve with childish despair, beseeching him wordlessly, begging him to take her along if he too was leaving.

_Please, _she prayed, _Let me go with them. Don't leave me here to die alone. _

"Get up!" a barking voice ordered.

Agnes felt Clopin wince before gripping her into a tight hug, clutching her against his chest. The embrace was fleeting. He gently lowered her onto the ground and kissed her forehead, letting out a despairing sigh in response to Agnes's protesting cries.

"My little lamb, it is time for me to leave you... I don't know when I'm going to see you again. May God have mercy upon your soul and mine." Another kiss on the forehead as he gently pried her fingers off him. "I love you, daughter…" And then he was gone.

Ruthless hands were now on her and Agnes was forcibly lifted off the floor.

"Leave her!" the same barking voice commanded. "Frollo's orders! The mute is allowed to live!"

Agnes's body sagged onto the floor. She knew that Clopin along with the rest of her gypsy tribe were being lead away to die. And Esmeralda, her sister, and her friend, was likely with them. It was not right. She wanted to die with her family. Whether it be by hanging, burning or drowning. It did not matter.

"Come back," she wailed to the retreating guards. "Come back!" The words were garbled and incomprehensible. The pathetic sounds she made mockingly echoed against the dungeon walls. Agnes sighed in defeat.

_Author's Note: I'm actually shocked by the number of reviews the dreaded Chapter Thirteen received. Shocked and flattered. To Bixby the Footling Bat, Receneck, LxIsxJustice, DemonicBrat13 and Renarde Rouge: Thank you! Thank you so much!_

_I admit that this story is a tad depressing. But there will be some happy chapters, I promise! _


	15. Chapter 15

_Disclaimer: I do not own Hugo's Hunchback of Notre Dame nor do I own the Disney version. _

Agnes felt warm and comfortable and she instantaneously realized that the filth had been washed away from her body. Was she still rotting inside the dungeons? No… She was somewhere else. Agnes knew because the crawling vermin were gone. The putrid odors were gone. The sound of whip lashes were gone. The screams, the pleas for mercy, the wails- Gone! Her eyelids fluttered open. Light, something that had been denied to her for so long, filtered in. But it was not like the harsh, glaring brightness that had penetrated through the windows of the Palace of Justice. It was soft and warm, like a luminous halo. Deeply puzzled, Agnes looked down at herself and saw that she was no longer wearing her tatty gypsy garb, but rather a white, billowy nightdress. Agnes blinked. Was this Heaven? And if it was, where were Clopin and Esmeralda?

And then, as if to confirm that she was indeed in Heaven, Esmeralda materialized at her side.

_How long have I been dead? _she wondered and that was when she felt the sharp stabs of pain inside her mouth. Her tongue had not been restored to her; surely God would not allow her to remain a mute in Paradise. Was this hell then? Is that why her foster sister smelled like smoke?

Esmeralda quickly handed Agnes a cup of water and eyed her critically. "Agnes, I'm sorry. I am _so_ sorry… But everything is going to be okay… You're safe here. We're all safe. Me… Clopin… The other gypsies... And Frollo is-" Esmeralda began to cough violently, so violently that the cup she held shook. Water sloshed over the sides, spilling onto Agnes. Agnes did not notice. She ignored the drink that Esmeralda was offering and fervently gripped her foster sister's arm in order to confirm that Esmeralda was no unearthly apparition. It was odd, really… Agnes often attempted to convince herself that she was dreaming while imprisoned. Yet here she was, now trying to convince herself that what she saw was real. But when Agnes felt warm flesh, she realized that was true; they were alive. Alive and free.

"You're safe here," Esmeralda said once again.

Wherever "here" was. Agnes let go of Esmeralda's arm, sat up and began to study her surroundings. There wasn't much to look at, merely a chair and a silver framed, oval-shaped mirror hanging on the wall along with a tapestry that depicted a strange, stallion-drawn chariot dragging behind what looked like the sun. The halo of luminous light was merely sunshine that came flooding in through the western window of this tiny bedroom. Most people would have described this room as adequate at best; Agnes found it downright blissful. It was clean; it was quiet. But whose house was this?

"Esmeralda?" It was Clopin's voice coming from outside the room. Clopin! Agnes sat up again. "Is it Agnes? Is she awake?" He appeared in the doorway, standing there momentarily before bounding into the room, his thin face anxious. She darted out of bed and stood on wobbly legs. Agnes felt as weak as a newborn filly; her legs buckled and she landed on the floor. The gypsy king was at his foster daughter's side instantaneously.

Agnes remained still for a fraction of a second as her mind registered the idea that Clopin, who she thought had been killed, was here. But it was no ghost, no phantom, that hugged her. It was as though he had miraculously risen from the dead. Agnes joyfully threw her arms around him after recovering from her momentary shock. She cried onto his shoulder.

"I love you, Father," she sobbed. But her words were garbled.

But Clopin only brushed back her hair as though she was a little girl again.

"I cannot understand you," he said mournfully.

Agnes's arms dropped to her side, ending the embrace. She had called him "Father," something she had never done before. And he could not understand her. For the first time Agnes realized that she would never talk again. Agnes thought she would die after Frollo's mandate that her tongue be removed. Never once did she contemplate on what her life as a mute might possibly be like. But she thought about it now. Agnes could never thank Clopin for everything he had done for her. She could never again argue with Esmeralda, no longer banter with her or call her names whenever she deserved it, never tell Esmeralda that, in spite of everything, Agnes began regarding her as a sister long before now.

She leaned back to stare at Clopin through moist, despondent eyes.

Clopin's look of pity turned into an expression of dismay. "Agnes, don't. Just don't," he said agitatedly. Agnes continued to gaze at him with pained disbelief. Clopin then gripped her shoulders, giving her an indignant shake. "For God's sake, stop staring at me! I CAN'T STAND IT!" He sprung to his feet and turned his back on his younger foster daughter.

Esmeralda stepped forward. "Clopin…"

"I CAN'T STAND IT! I can't stand looking into the eyes of my daughter- _my mutilated daughter_. I see nothing but pain. It's too much…" He shook his head ruefully. "Because her pain is proof that I failed as a father. I can't even protect my own child. Forgive me, Agnes. Forgive me for failing you." And he started to leave without uttering another word, without even casting a backwards glance.

Agnes had always been proud of being the gypsy king's daughter and she bitterly realized that that was yet another thing she would never be able to tell him. And now Clopin wouldn't even _look_ at her… _And _he was leaving… A horrifying combination of anger and sorrow raged through her and Agnes desperately attempted to scramble after him, but Esmeralda held her back. "Don't. He'll come to his senses." Agnes yanked herself free with surprising strength, hurried after Clopin and prevented him from leaving by blocking his path.

"Don't say that! Never say that! It's not true!" Agnes wailed those three sentences over and over again even though she knew that neither Clopin nor Esmeralda could understand her incomprehensible gibberish. She made a valiant attempt not to sob out loud, unwilling to distress Clopin even further. The effort failed. Agnes quivered in her hysteria, her chest aching as she attempted to repress her sobs. She soon began to gulp for air.

"It's all right," Clopin murmured, again embracing her shaking form. "It's all right. I'm sorry I lost control like that… I'll stay, I'll stay..." One hand brushed back her hair; the other was used to motion towards Esmeralda, who quickly stepped forward and guided Agnes back to bed. Clopin subsequently ambled towards the window.

It was Esmeralda who clarified what had happened after the Feast of Fools once Agnes became pacified. "People, people who used to _hate_ us, actually helped me escape from soldiers. I never knew… I never knew that they had begun to sympathize with us long before that day. And during Frollo's siege, some people actually harbored gypsies- the baker, for starters…" Agnes listened as her foster sister elaborated on Frollo's decent into madness, how unyielding he was in his attempt to incarcerate her, demolishing half of Paris in the process, how the judge succeeded in locating the Court of Miracles, the way the gypsies were rounded up and almost burned. She then described how she was almost burned at the stake. Agnes eyed her foster sister; that explained the smell of smoke and the violent coughing. She also noticed that Esmeralda's hair was slightly singed. Esmeralda proceed to describe the battle that took place in Notre Dame's shadow and how the remaining prisoners were liberated from the Palace of Justice. She seemed to rejoice now that Frollo's reign of tyranny was over and unsuccessfully tried to convince Agnes that she too had a hopeful future.

Esmeralda did not noticed Agnes's souring face as that old feeling of resentment gradually crept into her heart. Esmeralda had something to live for; Esmeralda saw a clear, untroubled future ahead of her, like a secure and unproblematic pathway that would undeniably lead to happiness. And Agnes had…_nothing. _She had no clear pathway. Instead she had to journey down an unlit tunnel, ambling along and bumping into walls. And she wouldn't even be able to call out for help.

She envied Esmeralda. She knew it was wrong of her, knew that she should be grateful that her family had survived. Agnes _was_ grateful and she forced herself to listen to Esmeralda. But she realized that Esmeralda's words now meant nothing to her; it was mere sound. Chatter, chatter, chatter- Something that Agnes was no longer capable of. She mournfully thought of her own voice, so light and girlish, something she never appreciated until now. She had even disdained her voice because of its inability to sing. Agnes now listened to Esmeralda's voice with resentment. There she was, the cause of Frollo's wrath, showing off what Agnes was no longer capable of. And Agnes wanted to rip out her vocal cords so she could experience the pain Agnes now endured. Esmeralda did not notice that Agnes had turned her head towards the sun, stinging tears in her eyes.

Clopin had at last turned away from the window and observed her unmoving form. "Now it's my turn. I want to speak to Agnes. Alone." He seemed to have composed himself for Agnes's sake; his tone was now unruffled and rational. Esmeralda's thick brows furrowed, but she nodded in agreement and left quickly, closing the door behind her.

Clopin seated himself on the chair that Esmeralda had occupied just moments ago. "Agnes, do you remember the night you wandered into the gypsy campsite? You were so young. How old were you- five? But do you remember asking me why I had left you behind after your mother died?" Agnes slowly nodded. "I left you behind because I was afraid of the consequences that you, not I, would have to face. You would be a member of a despised race if I chose to adopt you. _That's _why I decided to leave you behind. But you followed us and I made a very grievous mistake. I should have returned you to your family, but instead I disregarded my intuition and allowed you to become a gypsy."

Agnes again shook her head franticly. She did not like where this was going. Agnes never once blamed Clopin. She never once regretted the fact that he had adopted her.

Clopin smiled gently and stretched out his hand to hold her head still. "Don't shake your head at me, young lady. It's true. You _were _punished for the crime of being a gypsy. Because of me, you suffered. You suffered horribly. But the worst part is that, deep down, I don't regret adopting you. Further more… Further more, I am _proud _of you. You are a survivor, Agnes. Do you remember how the idea of performing on the streets frightened you? Yet you conquered your fears and danced even though you despised it. And that's not all… You survived harsh winters. You survived being imprisoned. And you will survive this." Clopin gripped her hands. "Promise me, Agnes. Promise me that you will overcome this challenge like you did with all the others."

He was asking for the impossible. _No_, Agnes thought, _he's begging for the impossible_. _He's begging for the impossible even though he hates begging_.

Clopin squeezed her hands together before letting go. Agnes felt something in-between them. Looking down, she saw that he had just transferred over the very same amulet that he had given to her on the night of her adoption. She had worn the amulet every day since then. Every day, except for on the Feast of Fools.. She had been too busy fretting about her role as the Princess of Paupers and had forgotten all about it. Clopin must have retrieved it from the Court of Miracles.

Agnes remembered how he had once placed the talisman around her neck, silently reassuring her that he would never abandon her. "Every gypsy wears one," he had said. "You're one of us now."

And now, thirteen years later, Clopin was again reminding her that she would never be alone. Agnes clutched at the amulet and slowly nodded her head in agreement. She would overcome this challenge. For his sake, she would summon what little courage she had. Clopin nodded in reply to her unspoken promise, creating a pact between them.

_Author's note: Okay, I feel horrible for pretty much excluding Quasi from this story. He'll be appearing again shortly and I promise that he will have an important part. _


	16. Chapter 16

_Disclaimer: I do not own Hugo's Hunchback of Notre Dame nor do I own the Disney version. _

Three times a day Esmeralda came in with a platter laden with food: delectable soups and hot breads that smelled delicious, things that would entice her to eat. It was another mocking reminder of what Frollo had done to her. Agnes had taken a small bite of a fresh, buttered croissant only to discover that it was tasteless; she took a sip of wine and realized that it was no more flavorful than water. She sourly realized that she actually had good things to consume for the first time in her life. And she couldn't even taste it. Why not feed her garbage? It would be all be the same. Still, Agnes remembered the promise she had made to Clopin and forced herself to eat.

She could at least walk without assistance now, but there was still that aching discomfort inside her mouth and throbbing headaches were an everyday occurrence. So Agnes remained cooped up in her room and once again felt like a prisoner. She often gazed out the window, wanting nothing more to wonder endlessly along the Parisian streets just to feel the sun and wind.

Other times she studied her reflection in the tarnished mirror. She never considered herself as a beauty; on her better days she was somewhat pretty. But now… She saw the strained, haunted eyes that dominated her gaunt face. To think that her face had once been as round as an apple. She knew that she had lost a vast amount of weight; her old dress, the one Esmeralda has scavenged from the Court, now hung limply on her. She took several steps back so that she could examine her figure and vowed to eat better just to fatten up. Agnes advanced again towards the mirror and saw that her skin was taut and brittle, so brittle that it looked as though it would crack if she dared to smile. There was also a crescent-shaped scar on her mouth, the result of Frollo's ring slicing open her lower lip.

_Frollo, I hope you're rotting in hell_, Agnes thought savagely. Esmeralda had told her how the judge's body had been discovered, broken and burned beyond reorganization. It made Agnes happy to know that the man's death had been a horrible one. At times she recalled her last spoken words. It made her feel somewhat vindicated to know that the last understandable sentence she uttered was to challenge Frollo. She was glad that she did not waste her breath on pathetic pleas for mercy.

Agnes knew, of course, that she was wallowing in self pity and tried like anything to push aside all her negative emotions and focus only on the positive. Clopin was alive and Esmeralda was alive- Agnes repeatedly reminded herself of that. But soon bitter frustration began to gnaw at her again. She resented being tended too as though she was an invalid. She pretended to be cheerful whenever Clopin visited, but Agnes had always been an untalented actress and she knew that he wasn't fooled. Clopin saw that her smiles were false and he was aware of that grim, hard gleam in her eyes. Clopin was an exceptional actor and could successfully perform even in front of soldiers, but even _he_ could not quite overcome his uneasiness. He was still unable to fully accept the fact that Agnes was voiceless. Tension was thick and it almost suffocated them both. Clopin, like Agnes, made a valiant effort and attempted to talk to her, usually asking her basic yes-or-now questions, but that was all. Shaking her head up-and-down or side-to-side was the only way she could communicate. That and pointing to whatever she wanted. Agnes did not speak out loud, not anymore; it was just too humiliating and she could not stand the looks of pity. She refused to cry, not even when she was alone. Tears would not magically solve her problems.

And then one day Esmeralda introduced her to Phoebus de Chateaupers.

She had walked into the room bearing a tray of food like she always did, but, to Agnes's surprise, she was being followed by a man who was at least in his mid-thirties. Agnes immediately identified him as the blonde, shaggy-haired, armor-clad fellow from the Feast of Fools. She once again felt a mild attraction towards him. But then Agnes recalled how he had disregarded her appreciative stares only to admire Esmeralda moments later. She then remembered that he was a soldier, a captain, and therefore a minion to Frollo. For an awful moment she thought that he had come to arrest them. Agnes now seethed in silent fury, slowly inching towards the tarnished mirror, prepared to pry it off the wall and smash it over the captain's head if he dared to approach any closer.

Esmeralda, perhaps sensing danger, quickly set the tray down. "Agnes, this is Phoebus."

Agnes ceased to advance towards the mirror, stunned by Esmeralda's jaunty tone. Esmeralda _knew _this man? Knew an actual captain of the guard well enough to address him by name? It was entirely unreal, especially considering that Esmeralda hated soldiers far more than Agnes did.

"We carried you here after we liberated those who remained locked inside the Palace of Justice," Esmeralda continued. "Phoebus- he's a captain… Well, ex-captain, I should say. He insisted. But don't let that worry you- Phoebus isn't like the soldiers we're used to. This is his home, but the way, and he said that you can live here until you're fully recovered."

And she proceeded to announce that they were to be married. The captain now cast a wide, but tentative, grin. Agnes pursed her lips together and did not smile back. She then glared at Esmeralda. _Traitor, _she thought. But Agnes felt more than betrayal. There was jealousy and lots of it. Esmeralda had her handsome knight in shining armor. Esmeralda had unending good fortune. And Agnes _still_ had nothing. Every ugly emotion mankind was capable of feeling was boiling inside her. A horrible combination of anger, shame, grief and jealously festered inside her, each feeling struggling for dominance. Agnes wanted to scream, to hit and bite, to demolish everything in this house- for how else could a mute unleash their pent up emotions? She had tried to hide her unhappiness, but now… _To hell with it, _Agnes thought.

"Agnes," Esmeralda began warily, "What's wrong?"

The stupidity of that question prompted the angry outburst.

"EVERYTHING! EVERYTHING IS WRONG!" She fired back and she heard the pathetic, garbled words. Agnes flushed in angry humiliation, made worse by the fleeting look of pity on Esmeralda's face. To further express her anger, Agnes took her dishes and hurled them against the wall directly behind Esmeralda. There was an explosion of broken fragments. Esmeralda scowled again. Good. Anger was better than pity.

Phoebus seemed to enjoy the spectacle and did not seem to mind that his room was being trashed. He just stood there with an amused grin, something that Agnes found especially annoying.

"And I used to think you were _shy_," he said to her admirably. "Looks like you're just as fiesty as Esmer- HEY NOW!" the captain shouted with Agnes flung her mug at his head. That was followed by a plate, which she hurled like a discus. More broken pieces littered the floor.

Agnes paused when there were no more dishes to break, surveyed the wreckage with mixed emotions, and exited the house. She was spitefully glad, but, at the same time, ashamed of her childish temper tantrum. Agnes half expected Esmeralda to chase after her, but thankfully that did not happen. She hesitated at the doorway for a moment, suddenly intimated by the bustling city, and briefly considered returning to her room. _I am no one's prisoner, _she then thought rebelliously. _So why should I stay cooped up inside that damn house all day? _Agnes began roam aimlessly, wondering through the Parisian streets, to some extent appeased by her freedom. The weather was unseasonably warm for late winter, but there was still a slight chill in the air. At least the sun was shining and the cloudless sky never looked bluer.

Agnes stopped briefly to observe a young gypsy boy and his performing monkey. A crowd had gathered to watch the animal doing such clever tricks. They laughed at the chattering creature as it did back flips. Agnes, however, frowned, realizing that she would soon have to resume with performing on the streets. She almost laughed out loud upon remembering the first time she had danced, how she cried had afterwards like a little fool, as if dancing for the public was the worst thing that could possibly happen to her.

"What about you? Are you going to perform for us now?"

The unexpected question interrupted her musings and her eyes flew open in alarm. She wasn't prepared for this; she never thought anyone would actually attempt to converse with her. Agnes fretfully glanced up at the young man who had spoken to her, no longer the rebellious, hot-tempered person she had been just moments ago. Her strong will crumbled at that second. In the old days, Agnes would have forced herself to smile engagingingly for such feminine trickery earned extra coins. But now she lowered her eyes before shaking her head no.

"Oh, come on, now. Don't be shy," the young man coaxed. "We've all seen you dance before… Come on…"

The crowd was still there and they were all watching her. Agnes again shook her head. She raised a shaking hand to her temple, suddenly sickened by what was happening. Why? Why couldn't they all just leave her alone? The crowd continued to coax her with words of encouragement. "Come on, little gypsy. It's okay. No one's going to hurt you. Don't you know that the old judge is dead? Why so shy? Look at her, poor thing… She looks scared to death… What's your name, little one?"

And they were still staring, waiting for her to answer. Agnes retreated slowly, her face as red as a crabapple. She then saw Notre Dame and hurriedly entered the cathedral so that she could escape from their questions. The dimly lit interior was a small comfort, but Agnes, not paying attention to where she was going and focusing on the magnificent rose window, inadvertently bumped into a churchgoer. And then the churchgoer, caught of guard, collided into a rack of lit candles, which fell against the floor with a thunderous crash. Everyone in the vicinity jump and candlesticks rolled in every direction. People all turned and stared. And then came more questions. "Are you are all right? Are you hurt? Well, why don't you say something? You could at least apologize to that man."

It was a repeat of what had just happened in the city square. God, there was no escape, was there? Agnes prayed for the floor to split open and swallow her whole. But when the ground remained intact, Agnes scrambled up the spiral staircase that lead her to the belfry. It was tranquil here, just as tranquil as it was in the cathedral, and Agnes was grateful for the solitude. She let out a sigh of relief as she stepped out onto the ledge where with the wind rippled through her hair, her multicolored skirt flailing against her legs. Below her the rooftops greatly resembled a colorful mosaic. For a moment she stood there in blessed silence, leaning against the stone balustrade as she relished the isolation of the bell tower.

The air was chillier here than it was down on earth. Agnes shivered and retreated back into the belfry. It was there that a flickering radiance captured her attention. She saw bits of multicolored glass twinkling in the sunlight, and underneath stood a toy replica of Paris. Agnes examined this with interest and marveled at the craftsmanship of the Notre Dame model. There on the bell tower stood two figurines that Agnes recognized immediately: wooden representations of Phoebus and Esmeralda. Who else was depicted in this miniature city? Agnes curiously began picking up the little wooden people, quickly identifying the archdeacon and the blacksmith and the baker. Agnes frowned at the thought of the baker and wondered if he had survived prison. She subsequently observed a coarse piece of fabric covering something on the base of the Notre Dame replica. Thinking that an unfinished piece was underneath, she lifted up the fabric and immediately dropped it again. A figure of Claude Frollo was laying beneath.

And once again Agnes was startled by an unexpected voice.

"It's- It's not finished…"

She jumped despite the mildness of that voice. Agnes thought that she was alone, and almost said something out loud in her alarm. But she quickly bit down on her lip. She suddenly remembered that the belfry was the home of the bell-ringing hunchback. And there she was, rifling through his belongings. Embarrassed, Agnes turned around, wishing like anything that she could apologize for her rudeness. She lifted her eyes and looked at the distorted face of the man whose name she had forgotten, sadly realizing that all she could do was just stand there, as silent as the surrounding gargoyles.

_Author's Note: Like I said, I felt horrible for excluding Quasi. He will now be a crucial part of the story. And the next chapter will be a happy one. _

_Once again, I want to thank the people who reviewed my last chapter. Getting reviews is always a delight. _


	17. Chapter 17

_Disclaimer: I do not own Hugo's Hunchback of Notre Dame nor do I own the Disney version. _

"It's not…finished," the bell ringer said again. "A lot of it was destroyed by my mast-" He amended his choice of words. "By someone." He paused again, anxiously wringing his hands together, and waited for Agnes to respond. Agnes, not knowing what else to do, brushed back a loose strand of hair and met his gaze.

_Please say something, _she thought desperately. _Don't just stand there waiting for me to answer you. Continue talking about the model. Talk about the bells. The gargoyles. Something! _And then her fingers brushed against a colorless replica of a modest-looking dwelling.

The bell ringer cleared his throat upon seeing this. "I've- I've gotten most of the buildings rebuilt. Finding wood isn't a problem, but-but paint… I need more paint…" When Agnes again gave no reply, he added hastily, "N-never mind. I can see that I… I'm making you uncomfortable. And I'm…sorry."

Agnes squeezed her eyes shut in frustration. What should she do now? Feign deafness? No… That would be stupid. Besides, he already knew that she was quite capable of hearing. What if she left the belfry? No… That would not be right. Agnes had easily detected the despondency in the bell ringer's voice and to hastily scurry away like some frightened mouse would just be… _cruel_. Cruel and callus. Perhaps she should start talking so that he could hear her blathering gibberish, thus understanding her dilemma? No, _that _would be too mortifying. Agnes sighed and reopened her eyes. The bell ringer thought her silence was due to fear of him. She now took a single step closer to prove that he was wrong.

His distorted face contorted with panic until Agnes smiled. It was a weak, faulty smile, but a smile nonetheless. His features relaxed. "What's your name?"

More infernal questions! Agnes bit down on her lip, wondering just how long she could keep her secret. Uncertainly she glanced down at the model and, in doing so, detected a shepherd figurine surrounded by half a dozen sheep. She picked one out randomly, holding it in the palm of her hand, and presented it to the hunchback. She pointed to herself and then at the toy sheep.

He cast her a fleeting, quizzical glance as if puzzled by this unexpected guessing game. "Sheep… Uh, lamb… Agnus…" Agnes suddenly grinned, her first true smile in a long time. The hunchback's eyes lit up in comprehension. "Agnes? Is that it? Your name is Agnes?"

She nodded again. And then something occurred to her: this was the first time she truly attempted to communicate since her maiming. And she had successfully introduced herself. Agnes could not help grinning triumphantly at this achievement.

The hunchback, however, frowned. "Why aren't you talking to me? You've been here before. You've talked then. Why not now?"

Agnes then knew that it was time to reveal her muteness. She sighed heavily and patted her throat, shaking her head while doing so.

"Sore throat? Is-is _that _the problem?"

This was going to be harder than she imagined. Agnes's fingers drummed edgily against the baseboard of the model as she jerked her head no. How? How could she explain? And then Agnes found a possible solution. She lifted up the fabric that covered the replica of Frollo and pointed to it. She then grabbed a carving knife from off the table, slashing it through the air in a reenactment. It wasn't actually Frollo who sliced off her tongue, but he was the one who ordered the executioner to remove it and he was the one who stood there and watched as it happened.

"F-Frollo?" the bell ringer stammered. "What did he do? Did he…" His voiced trailed off as the realness of the situation dawned on him. He staggered back in horror, appearing utterly sickened. "Oh, God… I am _so _sorry, Agnes…"

Agnes slammed the miniature Frollo onto the table and immediately plunged the carving knife into this wooden toy. An unsettling stillness swept through the belfry tower.

It now seemed to her that the bell ringer had something else to say. There certainly was a hesitant expression on his face, as if he was contemplating something that was far beyond his courage. At last the bell ringer said, "There- there is something you should know. Y-you don't have to gesticulate. The pantomime… It isn't necessary. I- I can read lips…"

Agnes gaped at the hunchback in astonishment when she heard this, for a moment thinking that what he said was nothing more than a lie. It could not be true. Utterly far-fetched and not at all probable. Yet the idea of having a normal conversation with someone tempted her to believe him. Agnes was compelled to speak. Feeling rather foolish and certain that she would receive nothing but disappointment, Agnes moved her mouth, her lips silently forming words. She asked a simple question.

"M-my name?" There was a flicker of shame. "It's… _Quasimodo_." The last four syllables were barley audible

That was precisely what she had asked for. Agnes was amazed; she never expected him to answer so easily, but she still refused to be deceived by it. Perhaps that was nothing more than a fluke. Perhaps it was all a charade. Agnes then spoke for the second time, once again careful that no sound came out. "How can you possibly understand me? I don't understand." And then, just to challenge him further, said, "I also think that the gargoyles are enough to give a person nightmares."

"I spent my entire life watching people," he answered simply. "S-sometimes I would sneak down the staircase to hide in the shadows so that I could watch people murmuring prayers. I suppose I just picked it up." He then gave a crooked smile and added, "The gargoyles aren't really so bad once you get to know them."

Agnes was now fully convinced. She thought of her failed attempts to talk to Clopin and Esmeralda; neither one were able to comprehend what she was saying. She had kept her thoughts and emotions bottled up for so long, and now… Now she had someone she could confide it, if he would let her. And it was the greatest gift she could possibly ask for. Agnes sprung forward and fervently pulled Quasimodo into an embrace, and, easily forgetting that he was ugly and deformed, tightened her grip with unexpected strength. Agnes had proudly held back her tears for so long. Now the damn broke, allowing water to seep from her eyes.

At last Agnes stood up shakily, wiping her flushed, wet face with the back of her hand and cast Quasimodo a look of shining joy. "I'm sorry," she said, her head turned towards the bell ringer so that he could watch the motion of her lips. "I'm sorry… My emotions… I haven't had much control over them for…Well, quite some time." She gave another watery smile. "Can I… Can I stay here? Just for a little while? I haven't talked to anyone for weeks."

He appeared delighted by the idea. "Oh…yes… Of- of course…"

"I'm not intruding?"

"Of course not."

With that, Agnes seated herself on a beam of uncut wood. This was the first time for her to converse since the incident, yet she was unsure of what exactly she should say. She did not want to talk about prisons or trials or any other sensitive subject, at least not yet anyway. Agnes glanced around the drafty tower, mentally comparing it to the Court of Miracles. There was wind here. And plenty of sun and sky. Likely there was a spectacular view of the heavens once the sun set. And so much room! Lots of fresh air too. The Court was stagnant and the tunnels leading to it reeked like rotting flesh. It was always cramped, which was an inconvenience at times, especially when one wanted to be alone. But there was never a boring night, not with the music and the dancing and Clopin's puppet shows. Agnes contemplated on which of them was more fortunate: Quasimodo for living above Paris or her for living beneath it. The latter, she decided, simply because she had been blessed with family. Agnes wondered just how long Quasimodo lived in the cathedral. Probably for quite some time, judging by the stories Clopin used to tell. At least a decade. Maybe even longer. Agnes remembered a particular tale of how the bell ringer was the result of the union between the devil and a camel. Agnes shuddered in disgust at her foster father's vulgarity, and wanted nothing more than to ask about Quasimodo's parents. But she decided against it, switching instead to a less personal question. She pointed to a statue of a young, beardless saint. The sculpture was incomplete. The upper half was defined while the lower part was a solid block of marble. "Who is he?"

"Saint Sebastian," the bell ringer replied at once.

"You seem so certain of it. How can you tell for sure?"

Quasimodo pointed to a stone arrow protruding from statue's side. "He as shot by archers."

"A horrible way to die." And then it happened. Agnes had involuntarily dropped her guard, allowing not only the words, but also the sound, to slip out. The wretched gibberish seemed to echo, practically reverberating off the bells. Agnes flushed because of her blunder and her hands swiftly rose to cover up her lips in an involuntary gesture of humiliation.

But the bell-ringer said casually, "You don't have to do that. I already know what you sound like."

Agnes lowered her arms, relieved that he spared her from that patronizing pity that she had grown to detest. "You're different than the others."

Quasimodo gave a sad smile. "Yes," he said, "I'm aware of that."

"That's not what I meant," Agnes said hastily. "I meant the fact that you are not bothered by my gibberish. My sister and my father- they are unnerved by the way I sound, though they both try to hide it for _my_ sake. And I've learned to keep quiet for _their_ sake. Besides, it's embarrassing, sounding the way that I do. And, well, _thank you_. Thank you for treating me as though I'm normal." Her face reddened and she covered up her uneasiness by again gesturing towards the statue of the martyred saint. "As I said, that's a horrible way to die."

"He survived the archers," Quasimodo said, but when Agnes gave a look of relief, he added quickly, "but then the Roman emperor ordered that he be clubbed to death."

Agnes supposed that it was odd to feel compassion for a saint, but she could not help but be saddened by the violence he endured during his short life as well as the fact that his image was left uncompleted. She again turned to Quasimodo. "Did something happen to the artist? Is that way the statue was brought up here?"

"Umm, no, that- that isn't the reason. The face is barley chiseled, but if you look closely, you will see that his features are slightly lopsided. It stigmatized the sculptor and so Sebastian was brought up here to be forgotten. He's not the only one. Saint Jude's arms are not proportionate. Mary Magdalene- she's over there, near the fractured baptismal font- her fingers were broken off. That one near the entrance toppled over and broke in half. I'm not sure _who_ he is…" Quasimodo ran a hand through his bright red hair. "All those with physical imperfections are brought to the bell tower."

Agnes decided to change the subject. She gestured to the model of Paris. "Who taught you to carve? One of the sculptures?"

"No one taught me," he replied and there was a gleam of pride.

Agnes was impressed. "I'm not much of an artist. I once made a tapestry, but I found it rather tedious. I'm not exactly the most patient person in the world. Creating something like that-" She jerked her head towards the model "-would drive me mad."

The bell ringer chuckled.

They soon began to converse over insignificant subjects. And Agnes realized she was enjoying herself. Quasimodo was quite likable and she soon realized that it was quite easy to overlook his physical flaws. She effortlessly began chatting and before long the mute and the hunchback's discussion turned more serious for Agnes explained her trial and her time she had spent in the Palace of Justice.

_Author's Note: Finally! A happy chapter! I feel as though my entire story revolves solely on this one particular chapter. So please, please, take the time to give it a review. _

_I had mentioned in the first chapter that this was originally going to be a story about Esmeralda, but then Agnes turned into an original character. I also mentioned that I did not change her name simply because it would be an important factor in an upcoming chapter. Well, this is the chapter. I knew early on that Agnes was going to be mute and I fell in love with the idea of her holding up a toy sheep so that Quasi could guess her name. (Agnus is Latin for lamb.) _

_And, for those who aren't familiar with the book, Quasi was able to read lips due to his deafness. That is one of the reasons why I decided to make Agnes a mute, so that her disability could create a bond between her and Quasi._


	18. Chapter 18

_Disclaimer: I do not own Hugo's Hunchback of Notre Dame nor do I own the Disney version. _

Quasimodo still sat directly in front of Agnes, watching her face intently as she spoke. Even though the bell ringer was not troubled by her garbled words, Agnes still detested it and carefully made sure that no sound came out.

"…It was rather stupid, saying that to Frollo, but I couldn't stop myself. He said that a wicked tongue should be removed and that I should consider myself fortunate that he was allowing me to live. Frollo then ordered the executioner to…" She shuddered as she relived the incident. "Soldiers dragged me away and mercifully I fainted when the knife began to slice… to slice through… But I distinctly remember Frollo had followed us into the dungeon and he was watching as it happened with an unresponsive look on his face. Just watching, as though it was a play." Her fists constricted tightly, so tightly that the nails dug into the skin. She then spat out venomously, "I _hate_ him. I hate what he's done to me. And what's worse is that I feel so powerless. I'm going to be like _this_ until the day I die. And there's nothing I can do about it. I'm not going to change. I'm not going to miraculously heal." Agnes's willow-colored eyes met the bell ringer's blue-green ones and she saw not pity, but understanding. Agnes was suddenly struck by the realization that _he_ was just like _her_. He was never going to change. His deformities were never going to mend. He was trapped in that distorted body.

Agnes's hands unclenched as her anger waned. "I'm _not_ noble," she said as she shook her head remorsefully. "A noble person wound bravely accept their fate. A noble person would never brood or complain, which is _exactly _what I'm doing. But I can't stop myself." She smiled apologetically and added, "I complain far too much. But thank you. Thank you for listening. I… I didn't say all that just to make myself seem like some tragic heroine. And I didn't tell you that just to earn your pity. I _hate _being pitied. But it's as though the burden's been lifted and… Well, thank you."

It was now the bell ringer's turn to speak. "He- he raised me… Frollo, I mean."

Agnes looked at him with her lips parted in surprise. Frollo raised him? How could someone so filled with hate and malice raise someone as kind as Quasimodo? It seemed absurd, but Agnes believed him. Why would he lie about such a thing? She then recalled the discussion between the judge and the archdeacon.

She was about to speak again, to tell him that it did not matter because she could tell already that he was nothing like Frollo, but Quasimodo continued. "Frollo went out of his way to convince me that I was a monster. You- you said that Frollo remarked about how you should consider yourself fortunate because he was allowing you to live… You… _cannot _imagine how many times I heard almost those exact same words. He often said that I should consider myself fortunate that he was the one to find me because anyone else would have drowned me."

Agnes suddenly had a mental image of Quasimodo as a child and envisioned a deformed little boy cringing as his foster father said those cruel things. What a horrible upbringing that must have been. Imagine, being raised by that _fiend_… A fiend who was incapable of love. And to think of the of the horror Frollo must instilled into that child on a daily basis... It was enough to make even a stoic shudder. It was normal for fathers to hug their sons, but Agnes had a difficult time visualizing Frollo hugging the bell ringer, even when he was a wee toddler. She doubted that Frollo ever said a consoling word to him. Every remark given must have been given solely to inflict pain. Agnes's fingers rose to touch the scar on her lip and she couldn't help wondering how many times Frollo struck his ward. Quasimodo must have lived in constant terror; even now there was fear in his voice despite the fact that Frollo was no longer a threat. Agnes looked into the bell ringer's eyes, and yes, there it was. That same frightened child she had imagined was still lingering in there.

"Tell me," Agnes now said desperately. "Tell me that you don't believe that. Tell me that you don't consider yourself as a monster. Because it's not true…"

Quasimodo squeezed her hand in silent gratitude, and then, as if appalled by his own boldness, withdrew his hand. "I believed that I was a monster for twenty years. It's- It's not exactly an easy thing to overcome. I-I can venture outside the cathedral now, but there's still that persistent fear of being hated because of _this_. " He gestured briefly towards his face and then cast Agnes a small smile. "But thank you. Y-you're very kind."

Agnes flushed. "I'm _not_ kind. I'm… Just not mean."

Quasimodo laughed despite the serious of the situation. Agnes's lips twitched upwards. But then her expression became serious. "You believe me, don't you? That the things Frollo said to you aren't true? Because if you believe that Frollo was right about you, then you must believe that he was right about me also. That I was corrupted, that I got what I deserved…"

Quasimodo hesitated. She did not know why exactly, but his unwillingness to answer right away unnerved her. Agnes's throat tightened and she glanced away with a bitter sigh. Slowly, the bell ringer then lifted her chin and turned her face towards his.

"No, Agnes," he said softly. "Don't ever say such a thing." Quasimodo looked at her steadily. "Frollo was wrong."

"Wrong about me?" she asked. "And wrong about you?"

"Wrong about everything."

She smiled gratefully. "I'm so tired of being sad. I… _want _to enjoy life. And I'm tired of living in fear. I… might even resume with dancing on the streets again. I used to dread dancing, but it seems like a mere trifle now." She shrugged her shoulders. "I might even switch to juggling, though I'm afraid I've gone a bit rusty."

"You can juggle?"

"I'm…not that impressive, really. I don't juggle with torches or knives. With my luck, I'd probably burn down a building or hack off my hand." Agnes picked up three small blocks of wood and juggled them at a rather slow speed. She gradually increased the momentum until they became a blur. She abruptly stopped, attempted to catch the objects and missed. The wooden blocks fell to the floor. "Ah, see? Catching them is the tricky part." She smiled again. "_That_ is my one talent. And it's not much to boast about." Agnes crossed her arms over her chest. "I showed you my talent. Now it's your turn. Could you… Could you sculpt something? Please?"

Quasimodo bent down to retrieve one of the fallen blocks, took hold of a small blade and began to carve through the wood. Agnes observed with interest. She thought it was a person at first, but soon realized that it was some four-legged animal. Intrigued, Agnes mentally tried to guess what it was. Too short for a horse and too fluffy for a pig. And then she realized that it was a figurine of a lamb. It was not like the thistle-shaped sheep that surrounded the shepherd figurine, but an actual, lifelike carving. She knew that this required a great amount of skill, yet Quasimodo made it look as effortless as peeling a potato.

"Oh… It's wonderful," she exclaimed, fighting the urge to applaud. "Absolutely remarkable!" She then chuckled. "I'm rather envious. Juggling seems so minor in comparison."

Her eyes subsequently darted to the sky and she was surprised to see that the sun would set in just a few hours. "I've been here almost all day… I really should leave. My family will be worried and…" Her expression soured. "…And they will have no idea where I've been all day because I can't tell them…" Agnes glanced at the bell ringer anxiously. "Will you… Will you come with me? I… I have so many things to tell them and I need you to… Well, translate." Quasimodo searched her face and perhaps saw her hopeful anticipation because he nodded his head slowly in agreement. Agnes beamed as she clasped his hands. "Thank you."

They were about to descended down the spiral staircase when Agnes hesitated.

"Wait…" She held up a single finger. "Just one moment." Agnes hurried over to the model of Paris, snatched up the figurine of Judge Claude Frollo and extracted the knife that she had plunged into it just hours ago. Agnes then stared down at the toy as though it had some strange, unearthly power over her. Over _them. _Agnes frowned and gave a slight shake of her head; she was being superstitious. She then scurried back Quasimodo, giving him the wooden figurine. "You should do the honors."

He stared at the statuette and then at her, apparently confused. But then he understood. He took the figurine and hurled it out of the bell tower. She and Quasimodo again advanced towards the exit, only now a lanky, purple clad figure was blocking their path. The bell ringer froze and Agnes jolted in alarm. Neither of them had heard him coming.

"Well, well, well!" So _this _is where the runaway lamb has strayed!"


	19. Chapter 19

_Disclaimer: I do not own Hugo's Hunchback of Notre Dame nor do I own the Disney version. _

"Well, well, well! So _this _is were the runaway lamb has strayed!" Clopin's vigilant eyes evaluated Agnes before roaming to the mobile of colored glass to the massive bronze-colored bells to the crisscrossing beams of wood. His stance was rigid, his arms crossed in a defensive posture. Agnes knew that he was uncomfortable and immediately understood why. Clopin thrived on the streets below- that's were _his_ kingdom was- and he was not at ease here in the cathedral's tower. Clopin's gaze then quickly snapped back to his foster daughter. "Imagine my surprise when the _sun god_ told me that you threw dishes at his head. And imagine my surprise when I opened up your door so that I might congratulate you, only to find you missing." He uncrossed his arms. "Never expected to find you _here_ of all places." His gloved hand ran across the unfinished sculpture of Saint Sebastian as he spoke and he studied the dust collected on his fingertips.

Quasimodo cleared his throat and cast a curt nod towards the gypsy king. "Clopin."

Clopin finally acknowledged the bell ringer; he returned the gesture. "Quasimodo." There was a brief pause. "I see that you've met my daughter, Agnes Corday-Trouillefou."

Quasimodo rotated towards Agnes. "_He's _your _father_?"

"Yes." Her lips silently formed the word and she nodded her head so that Clopin could understand as well. Agnes made doubly sure that no sound spilled forth now that he was here. "Well, foster father, actually."

"And your sister…"

"_Foster_ sister," she corrected. "If you know Clopin, then you must know Esmeralda." She was suddenly struck by the wide, glorious smile that spread across his face, much like a sunrise over the eastern horizon. She had seen him smile a few times, but they were small smiles. Genuine, yes, but small. They were _nothing_ like this. Agnes at once saw how his face simply beamed with delight, miraculously altering the distorted countenance the moment she mentioned Esmeralda's name. It was, she realized, a tender and almost lovesick smile. "You do… You do know her then?"

"I…" He faltered and the look of sheer joy vanished as the bell ringer reverted back into his shy, awkward self. "I mean, yes, I do…"

Clopin, meanwhile, raised an eyebrow. "Yes, you do, what?"

"Do you want to tell him that you can read lips?" Agnes asked Quasimodo. "Or do you want to continue provoking him?" She couldn't help smirking. "Look at him. He's getting more and more annoyed. He knows that we're talking about him too. It _is_ rather amusing…"

Quasimodo smiled back guiltily; obviously he agreed.

Clopin frowned as he again witnessed the peculiar exchange between her and the bell ringer. He was troubled by what he saw. Clopin watched their smiling faces and somehow guessed that it had something to do with him, that the two of them were laughing at _him, _and he could not understand why. He was like some wily fox ensnared in a trap, unsure of how or why it got in there, and outraged by his own incompetence.

"Do you mind telling me," Clopin now said through gritted teeth, "just what the _hell _is going on here?" He was now looking solely at Quasimodo. "I don't like seeing my daughter's lips flap like that! She looks like some fish gasping for air!"

Agnes then grimaced in annoyance. A fish gulping for air… Couldn't he have used a more flattering simile? Agnes quickly gestured towards Clopin. "He's getting angry now. You better explain to-"

"HELL AND DAMNATION!" Clopin roared. "There she goes again!" Clearly, he was more disturbed by Agnes's lip movement than he was by her gibberish. "For God's sake, would someone tell me what the devil is going on?"

"If you wish to talk like that in _your _home, go ahead and do so," Quasimodo responded, his voice now starched and cold. "But let me remind you that this is _my _home. It is also a _church_."

Clopin waved a flippant hand. "Yes, yes, I _am_ being _most _uncivil," he responded carelessly.

"You also interrupted your daughter," the bell ringer reprimanded.

"I-" The indignant expression again became a bewildered one. "I _what_?"

"Interrupted your daughter," Quasimodo answered simply. "She was telling me-"

"Telling you? How can she tell you anything?"

"I know what she's saying. I just watch the motion of her lips. And there are some things she would like to tell you."

Clopin looked at her. "Is this true? This nonsense about lip reading and whatnot?" He suddenly did a double take and looked at her, really looked at her, and blinked in disbelief as though she was some sort of mirage. Clopin did not bother waiting for an answer. "It _is_ true! I can see by my daughter's face that it's actually true! That look of hopelessness! Gone! Look at her!" Clopin snatched hold of the bell ringer's cuff with one hand and pointed to Agnes with the other. "Look at her!" he exclaimed jovially. "See how her face is happy and smiling? See how she no longer looks as though she's dead inside? Why hadn't I noticed sooner? Eh, no matter! My daughter's returned to me!" Clopin joyfully embraced her before placing his hands on her shoulders. "Agnes, so what is it that you want to tell me?"

She glanced at her translator; he gave her a single nod. Agnes subsequently looked into Clopin's face. This time she spoke out loud; garbled words came from her mouth. It was impossible for him to comprehend, but he did not mistake the sentiment.

"She said that she loves you," Quasimodo told Clopin softly. "And she called you 'Father'. She wants to thank you for raising her and regrets that she has never told you all this before. She said that she's proud of being your daughter and always has been."

"…And I don't blame you for what happened," Agnes continued as Quasimodo translated. "I never once blamed you. And every time I hear you lament about how you regret adopting me… It hurts. And I'm tired of hurting. Remember what you said when you adopted me? That gypsies live in a whirl of color and excitement. I want to return to that world. I want to go back to the Court-"

Clopin raised a single hand. He had heard enough. Agnes's lips stopped moving and the bell ringer became silent.

"You're right," he said. "You're absolutely right. We've been a regular pair of worrywarts! Always fretting over one thing or another! Much too sad! Tonight, we will hold an underground festivity! Dancing and storytelling…"

Quasimodo turned away then, seeing that he was no longer needed, but Clopin held up his hand. His expression was serious again. "Wait." The bell ringer stopped. "There is something I must say to you, but I refuse to say it with you hiding behind some blasted bell." Quasimodo shuffled forward tentatively.

"God knows that I'm no saint," the gypsy king said. "I have done things that I am not proud of. For starters, the Feast of Fools… I don't know whether or not you noticed, but I followed you around with malicious humor that morning-"

"I noticed," Quasimodo said coldly.

"Don't interrupt me. Everyone thought you were wearing a mask, but I knew it was your face. No artist in the world could ever make a mask like that! There you were, reticent and confused by the chaos, and still I was terrified of you. So I decided to have a little fun at your expense. _Why_? Because mocking you gave me a sense of power. But then I saw how the public feared you and I realized that _I_ was just like _them_. And I was suddenly ashamed."

"Yet you made the announcement that my face was the ugliest face in Paris," said Quasimodo wryly.

"True," said Clopin. "But what was I to do? Cause a greater panic? No, I instead proclaimed you as the Lord of Misrule because I knew what would happen if I did. I knew that the people would overcome their shock. They would admire and respect you. I know, because several years ago, _I _was crowned King of Fools. Don't sneer like that. It's true. I'm no Greek god. 'As skinny as a green bean, plus a carrot for a nose,' that's what they said when I was elected king." He shrugged. "People are too fixated with image. Take Agnes. Look at her. A pretty girl, yes? But not as beautiful as Esmeralda. Several men have offered bride prices for them both. But they always offered more for Esmeralda. And why? Both girls are kind. Both girls are clever. Only one happens to be prettier than the other. One of the most proudest moments of my life was to see my Agnes dance at the Feast of Fools. You see, there is more to Topsy-Turvy Day than making a jackass out of one's self. A lot more. It is a grand thing. For one day, gypsies can roam freely through the Parisian streets. For one day, an underappreciated girl can be finer than a queen and dance with a crown on her head. And I had also hoped that, for one day, a deformed bell-ringer would have had the power of the king. Don't forget that, for a few glorious moments, you were happy. For a few glorious moments, all of Paris hailed you. Don't you see? Making you a king was my way of making amends. But I never intended for you to be trussed up like some animal. You didn't deserve that." The gypsy king's face darkened. "But I am truly no better than those monsters who tied you to that pillory. I used to tell stories about you. I made it sound as though you were a demon, a demon that lurked on the rooftops and snatched away the souls of the wicked. And for that I apologize."

The gypsy king looked at the bell ringer. "I hope you can forgive me," he said gravely and extended a hand.

"It takes a great deal of courage to admit one's mistakes." Quasimodo took the offered hand. "You are forgiven."

"You're a better man than I am," said Clopin. He cast a respectful nod in the bell ringer's direction.

Agnes then stepped forward. "Come with us. To the Court of Miracles. You heard what he said. There's going to be dancing and storytelling. Nothing about child-snatching devils," she added quickly. "But nice stories. It's going to be a whole lot of fun."

Clopin watched as Agnes tugged at Quasimodo's arm. "No need to translate what she's saying, Quasi." He grinned. "And I absolutely agree with her. You need to join us. After all, it's because of you that my daughter is no longer as sad. But don't worry. We'll be a lot more- how should I say?- _cordial _than we were the _last_ time you visited the Court." The gypsy king shrugged. "That's another thing that I'm not proud of."


	20. Chapter 20

_Disclaimer: I do not own Hugo's Hunchback of Notre Dame nor do I own the Disney version. _

"It's true that Frollo's troops know about the Court's location," Clopin said while escorting Agnes and Quasimodo down a narrow passageway. "But they don't know about all the other tunnels that lead to it. They came through the cemetery and that entrance is now blocked off." There was a multitude of skulls laying in a heap before an iron door. Clopin picked one up calculatingly, opened the jaw and fished out a key. "I think it would be wise if we remained here. After all, prejudice does not die overnight." He unlocked the door. "Welcome home, Agnes."

She stepped into the Court. Quasimodo moved aside, allowing Agnes to return to her childhood home and be reunited with her old friends. It was exactly the same: ablaze with color, the air thick with the scents of spices and herbs, gypsy tunes being played on fiddles. The sights and smells and sounds made her dizzy. It seemed as though everyone halted upon her arrival. They all rushed forth. Women garbed in ragged dresses that had been sewn together in clashing colors came and kissed her cheeks. Men with uncombed beards and knives in the holsters beamed tender smiles. Their smiles, however, could not quite mask the pity in their eyes. Gypsy children now clasped her around the legs joyfully. They did not look upon her with compassion; they were just happy to see her. Agnes picked up the smallest one, placing the little girl on her shoulders and proceeded to totter around like a drunkard. The child screamed in delight.

"You're good with children," Quasimodo observed mildly.

Agnes dismissively shrugged. "Only the ones that are young. I'm not too good with the older children." She set the girl down, ignoring the child's protesting whines. The smile then slid off her face when she realized that Clopin, standing just a few feet away, was conversing with a fellow gypsy. She generally would have disregarded this, but two words had captured her attention: "Bride price."

Agnes bristled in annoyance. Her first day back and she had to deal with _this? _She evaluated her potential suitor, expecting to be entirely unimpressed. Unimpressed was an understatement. Agnes knew who he was: Mortimer Pardue, the same fellow who sat near the Apple of Eve Tavern and feigned lameness. The man had the face of a frog and the body of one too. A head of sparse black hair and a rather warty complexion, another froglike attribute. Agnes heard the clanging of coins. _He probably stole it from some dead body, _she thought scornfully.

Agnes turned then and knew by the expression on the bell ringer's face that he too had been listening to the discussion between Mortimer and Clopin. "It's as though you're a horse," he whispered. "Doesn't that bother you?"

"It's as annoying as a mosquito bite," Agnes readily agreed. She moved her lips silently so that no one else would know that she was speaking. "But look at Clopin's face. He disapproves of this fellow." She waved her hand unconcernedly. "But I'm not worried. Clopin always allows me to have a final say."

"But," Quasimodo protested, "That man is talking about _buying _you…"

"It's merely gypsy custom. Besides, it's no different then that nonsense about women and their dowries. Our way is better, if you ask me. How can I explain?" She paused for a moment as she tried to find a way of describing this unusual practice. "Let's say that a man has two diamonds. Two diamonds. He sells a gem to one person and merely gives the other gem to another. Now, who do you think is going to take care of that jewel?"

"The one who paid for it."

"Precisely," Agnes said simply. "It's unusual, I know, but it's merely a formality. Everyone in the tribe knows that. After all, Phoebus paid a bride price for Esmeralda and _she_ never protested. And God knows how rebellious she is… Speaking of which-" Agnes's head turned in all directions "-I wonder where those two are? No matter. I'm not really in the mood to apologize to _him…_" She trailed off as the suitor's voice increased in volume.

"Pity what happened to her, poor girl," Mortimer said and then the sorrowful face brightened. "But imagine being married to a woman who can't talk, can't nag, can't scold! Why, that's her misfortune and my gain!"

Agnes instantaneously grabbed a nearby beer mug, smashing it against his head in retaliation. The mug shattered, droplets of amber-colored liquid splattered everywhere and Mortimer, with a hand pressed against his bleeding temple, darted towards her with a clenched fist. The bell ringer and the gypsy king unanimously reacted defensively. Mortimer froze, eyeing Quasimodo, whose massive forearm was slightly raised, and Clopin, who had withdrawn a deadly-looking knife. Agnes, meanwhile, smiled- a small pompous smile- and casually crossed her arms. She smirked at Mortimer as if to say, "What are you going to do now?"

Two gypsy men, overhearing Mortimer's offensive remark, came forth. "How about we give him a good beating? We'll bust his face so badly that he won't be able to move his mouth for a week! Then we'll see how _he_ likes not being able to talk." Agnes mercilessly nodded her head in approval. They dragged Mortimer away.

"My ferocious little lamb," Clopin said proudly, ruffling her hair affectingly. "Next time you hit a man with a mug of beer, first make sure the glass is empty. I hate the thought of wasting perfectly good beer. No matter!" He clapped his hands briskly. "Time to eat!"

The gypsies had prepared a feast that night. Agnes, having been forced to develop an unusual way of eating because of her maiming and wishing to avoid the stares, chose to dine alone. She excused herself; Quasimodo translated for her. Agnes hastily stepped into her side of the tent, pushing aside the dividing curtain. She ate like a little sparrow, taking small bites and cranking her head back in order to swallow. When she was through, Agnes quickly rejoined the others. Glancing around, she saw that her friend was nowhere in sight.

Agnes tapped Clopin's shoulder to get his attention, and, once he turned, gestured around her. He raised one eyebrow in confusion, searching his foster daughter's face. He then comprehended her gestures and replied, "Quasi left while you were gone. Said he had to ring the bells for this evening's Mass."

Agnes attempted to enjoy herself. She took little notice of the surrounding festivities. While the others laughed at Clopin's puppet shows; she sat there grimly. Nothing could bring a smile to her face. Not when Clopin lost an argument with the puppet; not when the trained monkey danced a little dance, not even at the parrot that repeated curse words and insulted its trainer. Nothing. Agnes soon caught herself yearning to visit Notre Dame's towers where she could actually speak her mind instead of shaking her head yes and no. A place where she wasn't treated with compassion. A place where an unforeseen friend dwelled. The yearnings intensified throughout the rest of the day as the words she longed to say were almost choking her.

She left that night, tiptoeing through the Court and sneaking through the underground passage ways, slipping through the access near the Apple of Eve Tavern. The windows to the tavern were well lit and she could hear the drunken laughter from inside, but no one took notice of her. Agnes made her way to the cathedral were an astonished bell ringer greeted her like a long-lost treasure.

_Author's note: Ugh. I do not like this chapter. I tried, I really tried, to make it better… I've been working on this for weeks and sadly this was the best I can do. There were some days when I actually had to force myself to write. Like I said, ugh. _

_I'm sorry that it's taken me so long to update. I'm afraid that I've lost my muse and from now on I will probably be updating monthly instead of weekly. _

_I unfortunately have difficulty focusing on more than one story at a time. I'm currently working on a piece entitled Harebrained so please, please read it when you get the chance! _


	21. Chapter 21

_Disclaimer: I do not own Hugo's Hunchback of Notre Dame nor do I own the Disney version. _

Phoebus's house was a regular treasure trove. Esmeralda, as the impending mistress of the house, was given access to the rooms that, at one time, were the rooms of Phoebus's mother, who was dead, and his sister, who now lived in Germany. These ladies that were not exactly noblewomen, yet weren't paupers either. Esmeralda normally visited the house alone, but that morning Agnes came with her. She and Esmeralda rifled through dresser drawers and they both helped themselves to ribbons and combs. They opened up wardrobe and inspected dresses of good quality. The two gypsy girls, deprived of such fine clothes, instantly wore the gowns, but they soon realized just how uncomfortable silk and velvet were. And they both buckled over in laughter when they caught sight of themselves in the mirror. How unfitting! And to think that two dancers of the streets, standing there barefooted with gold hoops dangling from their ears and cheap trinkets jangling on their wrists, were masquerading as proper ladies! They swapped these garments for their gypsy garb by the end of the hour, preferring comfortable rags to binding finery.

They next wandered into the kitchen were they began rummaging through the cupboards like a pair of mice while the captain was still asleep upstairs. Agnes inspected a chunk of cheese, sniffed it once, and, deciding it was still suitable for eating, tossed it in a basket along with other edibles. Esmeralda continued to search through the through the pantry.

"Quasi's been talking about you a lot lately," Esmeralda said unexpectedly. "Apparently you've been sneaking into the belfry. I wonder what Clopin would say if he knew you were sneaking off each night?"

Agnes scowled. Had she possessed a voice, she would have retorted "_So what if I have?" _followed by "_I wonder what Clopin would say if he knew _you_ were visiting the captain each morning?_"

Esmeralda, as independent and self-assured as she was, preferred that her foster father remain unaware her secret rendezvous with Phoebus. She would wait for early morning rays of light and it was then that she would visit the home of the sun god. Clopin, who always slept late, was never alarmed to find Esmeralda missing by the time he awoke. Agnes preferred the secrecy of night. Her first visit was a spur-of-the-moment decision that soon became a nightly ritual. When the moon was high, Agnes would sneak out of the Court and slip to Notre Dame. When she looked up at the north tower against the dark sky, Agnes would see the glow of a burning lantern and know that the bell ringer was waiting for her. Agnes would then talk about her hatred for dancing, her attempts at juggling, funny stories she had heard while eavesdropping… Whatever topic she could think of. For a few blissful hours, Agnes would forget that she was a mute.

Agnes now glowered at her foster sister and knew by Esmeralda's smile that Clopin would never find out about her nighttime adventures. "He's a good friend. He risked his life to save mine and… and I can see by your expression that I never explained that Quasi's the one who saved me from being burned." Her thick brows furrowed. "I… chose not to elaborate on that part."

Agnes raised an eyebrow.

"Because," her foster sister said in explanation, "I was lucky. I was fortunate enough to have someone come and rescue me. But there was no one to rescue you…"

Agnes looked at Esmeralda and squeezed her hand in in a sincere, silent gesture of gratitude. She began to rummage though the pantry as though nothing had happened.

"Ugh. This bread is too stale," Esmeralda complained after nibbling on a corner. "But he takes care of the pigeons up there so I'll just pack it as well. Okay… Bread, fruit, dried meat, cheese… Did you get the wine, Agnes? Phoebus keeps it that cupboard. Oh, good morning!" Esmeralda smiled sweetly when the captain, wearing nothing but his nightshirt, blearily ambled into the kitchen like a sleepwalker.

"Esmeralda?" He blinked groggily and then his face became stern and vigilant. "Warn me, will you, the next time you bring your sister? I really don't like showing off my legs to the ladies."

Agnes rolled her eyes to show that she was not impressed. She grabbed the basket, jerking her head towards the front door as if to say, "We don't have time for this. Come on. Let's go."

"Whoa, you two. Do you don't mind explaining to me-"

"Just bringing some food for Quasi." Esmeralda scrutinized Phoebus. "So what do you have planned for today?"

"Nothing of importance. I was hoping to find out if those rumors are true."

"What rumors?"

"I heard that King Louis has assigned someone to take Frollo's place. Fellow's name is Jehan Moulin."

"What do you know of him?"

"That he's nothing like Frollo. That he squanders his money and participates in things old Claude would never approve of."

A vile yakking noise followed by the sound of something splattering onto the floor distracted all three of them. It did not take long to discover the source; Djali was on his side, moaning on the kitchen floor. Esmeralda knelt down and put her hand on the goat's belly. "Oh, Djali, what did you eat this time? Little glutton. I'm sure you are going to have a wonderful stomachache." She affectingly kissed the goat's forehead. "Serves you right too." Esmeralda looked up at Agnes. "Why don't you go to the cathedral without me? I've got to tend to an ailing goat."

"Wait-" Phoebus exited the kitchen for a brief second and returned holding a book. "I told Quasi I'd give him this." He handed it to Agnes. "Ovid."

Esmeralda, still doctoring the sick animal, raised her thick eyebrows. "Who?"

"Greek and Roman mythology. My father studied the myths. Instead of giving his children biblical names, he named us after pagan gods. Hence, Phoebus. I've got a younger sister named Diana and an older brother named Helios." He grinned wickedly at Esmeralda. "You know, I just might carry on the family tradition. Ours sons… Let's see, Phaethon, Ion, Zephyr… Our daughters-"

"Will be named Sapphira, after my mother. Rubia, after my aunt. And Opalina, after my grandmother." Esmeralda stood up as she said this, crossing her arms in mock decisiveness.

He and Esmeralda began to argue over possible names for their possible children. It was nothing more than good-natured banter, but still… Agnes could not help but be sickened by it. She, like Djali, might vomit on the kitchen floor. Agnes knew quite well that Phoebus and Esmeralda, once they tired of bickering, would commerce with the kissing. She hastily escaped through the door to avoid witnessing it. Agnes hurried to Notre Dame.

_Author's note: Yeah… I made a reference to the sequel, which I personally, um, loathe. _

_Also, this is where the title "Lantern Burning Bright" comes from. _


	22. Chapter 22

It seemed as though Agnes spent her entire life transferring from one realm to another. Throughout most of her childhood, she slipped back and forth between the streets of Paris and the world underneath, a place where "the lame could walk and the blind could see." And now Agnes ascended to an entirely different realm, one where a mute could speak. Agnes quickened her pace; she began to hear the bell-ringer's voice drift out as she continued to climb up the spiral staircase. "The Archdeacon told me about her. She was arrested with two other men- My father and my uncle. They were hanged, but the archdeacon spoke to them before their executions."

Agnes cleared her throat to make her presence known.

Quasimodo gave a start of surprise. "Agnes!" He bounded forward.

Her visits to the bell tower were always at night. At night, Quasimodo was robbed of most of his ugliness. At night, his deformities were softened by the gentle glow of the candlelight. But now, in the unmerciful brightness, Agnes was reintroduced to his misshapenness, but she was quick to dismiss her initial alarm. Quasimodo's expression was filled with a radiant joy and his jewel-colored eyes gleamed. His delight so overwhelming that it miraculously beautified his face. Odd, really, how she had never noticed this before. Agnes unfalteringly returned the smile, setting the book and the basket on the ground before stepping forward so that she could clasp his hands.

"How are you today, Agnes?"

She pulled back. "Not bad," she fibbed.

The bell-ringer gave her a searching look as he watched the motion of her lips. "Esmeralda was right about you. You _are _a horrible liar."

Agnes laughed and began to talk with ease. "I have my good days and my bad days. I hate having to pantomime everything. Esmeralda said something that annoyed me and I couldn't even fire a comeback. I miss tasting food." She nodded towards the basket she had helped pack. "But do you know what I miss the most?" She did not wait for the bell ringer to ask what. "Sarcasm. All I can do now is roll my eyes." Agnes sighed. "But it's not so bad, not anymore. Clopin talks to me. Esmeralda talks to me. Phoebus talks to me. But those aren't conversations. It's like talking to a pet, you know. It's…" Agnes thought about the sick goat. "…It's like how Esmeralda talks to Djali. That's how it is, I suppose. I might as well get used to it." She looked into Quasimodo's blue-green eyes. "But let's not talk about that. Coming up here makes me forget what I am. But speaking of talking…" She looked over Quasimodo's shoulder, expecting to see someone there besides herself. "Who were you talking to?"

"Oh… You heard that, didn't you? I was just talking to my- my friends." And he gestured to the gargoyles.

She wasn't surprised. Esmeralda had told her about how the bell ringer, out of sheer loneliness, conversed with stone. Agnes knew that Esmeralda often made attempts to break him of this habit, but Agnes, so accustomed to Clopin conversing with puppets, did not find it too unusual. She pointed to the potbellied, snout-faced gargoyle that looked as though it was half pig and half goat. "Does it have a name?"

"Hugo. And that one is Victor." He nodded towards a gargoyle with a heavy jaw and angelic-looking wings. While Hugo was rather comical, Victor appeared to be far more dignified. Agnes noticed that the bell ringer introduced them the way one would introduced a beloved relative.

"And this," said Quasimodo with great pride, "is Laverne." Laverne was the ugliest of them all, and the pigeon droppings that covered her did nothing to improve her appearance. But there was definitely something feminine about that ugly, withered face.

"Who were you telling them about?"

"Oh… Um, I was telling them about my mother."

There was something else Esmeralda had informed Agnes about. She knew that Frollo had been responsible for his mother's death and that Quasi for many years believed that she had abandoned him. "What do you know of her?"

"That she loved me." And his entire face beamed as he said this. "That she was beautiful. Here, let me show you." He removed a wooden plaque from off the wall. "Supposedly my father had carved this just before being arrested and gave it to the archdeacon before he was lead away to die, or perhaps the archdeacon found it- I really don't know.. The archdeacon insisted that this be brought up here when I was a baby. I spent so many years staring at this image and I never knew. I always believed that this was a carving of the Virgin Mary. But this beautiful woman is _not_ Christ's mother, but _mine_."

"You said that your father carved wood," said Agnes. "It looks as though his son inherited his talent. I'm sure he would be quite proud."

She was amazed when Quasimodo gave her an odd look, a combination of gratitude and astonishment.

"I always feared that my father would have been ashamed of having a deformed son," he said at last. "But to suggest that he would actually be _proud _of me… Thank you."

Embarrassed by his gratitude, Agnes looked at the wooden engraving of a large-eyed beauty. "Why, she's _lovely_, Quasi." With the woman's veiled head and tranquil expression, Agnes could understand why Quasimodo would mistake her for the Holy Virgin. She looked at the engraving and then back again at the bell ringer, trying to locate even the slightest resemblance between him and his mother. There _was_ one, Agnes decided after a long while. The shape of his eye- his good eye-and hers were almost the same, plus the upwards slope of the brow. "What was her name?"

"Zenobia."

"Zenobia," Agnes echoed. "That's beautiful."

"I know."

Agnes then pointed to the basket. "I brought breakfast, by the way. And a book."

"Oh… _Thank _you."

"It was Esmeralda's idea," she said quickly. "And the book belongs to Phoebus. I can't read." She reached into the basket, pulling out the heavy volume and flipped through the thick pages. Agnes had never held a book before, but knew that they were quite a treasure considering how very few people owned such a thing. She looked down at the letters that she could not comprehend. They looked like funny shapes to her, nothing more than circles and squiggles and zigzags.

"He said something about it being about mythology. Legends. Folklore. Things like that. I always did like stories…" She handed him the book with childish eagerness. "Could you?"

"Oh, yes, of course…" He thumbed through the heavy volume. "Book Ten: Pygmalion."

_Author's note: This chapter was inspired by the film "The Elephant Man." There's a scene where the deformed Merrick shows Ann Treves a photo of his mother, who is a surprisingly beautiful woman._


	23. Chapter 23

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunchback of Notre Dame nor do I own the Disney version.**

**First of all, I would like to apologize for how long it took me to update. Hopefully this chapter will make up for that delay. **

"I didn't like it," Agnes commented tetchily once the bell ringer was through with the tale of Pygmalian. "Falling in love with a statue just because it was beautiful… That Pygmalian fellow is as bad as all those suitors who used to bargain for Esmeralda." Agnes had long ago developed the habit of making exaggerated facial expressions and presently her nose was wrinkled just to stress her aggravation. "Worse than that, really, because at least Esmeralda has other attributes. But that statue… What was her name again? Galatea, wasn't it? She lacked a personality. She was nothing more than a thick block of stone." The tale itself was so meaningless and farfetched, yet it roused many unpleasant memories. Agnes took her agitation out on a chunk of bread, ripping it apart because she felt the need to do something, anything, with her hands.

The pigeons that had been nestled in the rafters above now flocked around her. Agnes didn't particularly like pigeons, but she preferred their company much more than the company of rats and therefore did not shoo them away. The birds were certainly well-fed considering how fat they were, yet the little gluttons insatiably snatched at the bread crumbs.

"But Galatea was something that he created," Quasi argued. "All true artist put their souls into their work and Pygmalian is no exception. Ovid claimed that he carved her with meticulous detail. I can imagine that there was a warm smile on her face along with a farseeing look in her eyes. A skilled sculptor can portray various emotions." Agnes inquiringly turned towards the model of Paris to see if that was right; Quasi did not miss this. "No, I'm not talking about my figurines," he said modestly. "I'm referring to the statues of the saints." Agnes then glanced at the figure of Mary Magdalene standing next to the fractured baptismal fount and yes, it was true; there was indeed a look of repentance on that stone face. "I see Pygmalian as a tragic figure," Quasi continued. "Imagine loving something incapable of returning your affections."

Agnes contemplated the bell ringer's response, but persistently maintained her own opinion. "I still don't like it," she said. "This disagreement won't stop you from reading to me in the future, will it?"

"I…I never talked about literature before. It's… enjoyable, discussing stories, even if we disagree. I had read Chaucer and Dante, but I was never able to discuss these works with Frollo. Instead of being instructed to recite certain passages, Frollo had me recite the alphabet, like a child first learning how to read." His words were surprisingly bitter, but his tone turned mild as he answered Agnes's question. "No, I won't stop reading to you." Quasi proceeded to peal back a thumbnail, trying to act casual and failing miserably. He then bowed in head in a habitual gesture of bashfulness, his fox-colored hair falling over his forehead. "You said that Pygmalion was just as small-minded as Esmeralda's suitors. Did… did she have many?"

Agnes dusted the remaining crumbs from off her hands and leaned back against the gargoyle with the angelic-looking wings. "I've lost count. Esmeralda has had many admirers. Young men. Old men. Rich men and poor men. Ministers. Captains." She arched an eyebrow. "Bell ringers."

Quasi blinked in surprise. "How did you know?"

"The first time I mentioned her name," Agnes answered. "Your reaction gave it away. And right now your blushing is a dead giveaway."

"Do you…" His voice trailed off after that.

"Do I what?" Quasi wasn't focusing on her face. Agnes cleared her throat and repeated the question. At least he was looking at her now, but still remained silent. Agnes, half in bitterness and half in jest, said, "Go ahead and say what you want to say. I'm certainly not going to repeat it to anyone."

She had made a valid point and it clearly dawned on the bell ringer that whatever he said would remain entirely confidential. And yet Quasi still hesitated. "If I was…normal looking… Do you think Esmeralda would-"

"Love you the way she loves Phoebus?" Agnes finished for him. He wasn't the first person to ponder that. A handful of mistrustful gypsies said that they preferred the bell ringer over the captain and maintained the belief that Esmeralda chose the latter simply because he was handsome. Agnes never deliberated on which man was the right one for Esmeralda. Part of her felt that it was really none of her concern. Agnes now shifted her head to indicate that she was not quite ready to answer. She tried to imagine Quasi as a tall and undistorted man, with normal- maybe even handsome- features. Still withdrawn. Still soft-spoken. And contending with Phoebus over Esmeralda.

"No," Agnes said with a shake of her head as she again met Quasi's gaze. "No, Esmeralda would still choose Phoebus. You're too tranquil. Esmeralda is spirited and lives in a constant whirl. I guess that's why she's drawn to an outgoing guy like Phoebus." Agnes hesitantly went on, not sure how the bell ringer was going to react. "I didn't like him much at first, but now I must admit that he has an awful lot of integrity." There was a feather in Quasi's hair; Agnes plucked it out and allowed it to drift to the floor like a snowflake. "You won't tell Phoebus I said that, will you? He thinks that I dislike him and I would rather have it remain like that."

"And why is that?"

"Hurt pride," Agnes admitted and reluctantly went on to explain. "On the Feast of Fools, Phoebus unresponsively looked at me , but later showed apprehension for Esmeralda. At the time I thought that it was because Esmeralda was prettier. Now I realize that if I had just smiled at the captain instead of gawking at him, he might have smiled back. But it still irks me." It was such a petty, immature confession and Agnes couldn't help but be annoyed with herself for being so miffed about something that had taken place months ago.

Quasi shifted uncomfortably. "…I'm not a good judge when it comes to… feminine beauty. To me, any normal, symmetrical face is attractive. Any pair of eyes that can look upon me without fear or disgust, I find lovely. And you're not afraid of me, are you, Agnes?"

"Not at all. I never was, you know."

"I know." And then, with unanticipated boldness, his hands grazed across Agnes's cheek.

Even if she wanted to speak, she couldn't: the bell ringer was now stroking her lips with a single finger, possibly encouraged by her compliance. Agnes unreservedly permitted it because- and she realized this with a jolt- she liked it. She liked him. Quasi must have been shocked by the blushing heat underneath his fingertips because he suddenly withdrew.

"You know," he said quietly, "I spent a great deal of my life wondering why God chose to make me deformed. Now I know why." Agnes looked at him in puzzlement. Quasimodo continued. "I was locked away because of my deformity and because I was locked away, I spent my entire life observing people while hiding in shadows. That's how I learned to read lips." He made a sudden movement as though he was going to again touch her, but stopped himself. "Don't you see, Agnes? I used to think that ringing the bells was my purpose in life. I believed God made me deformed so that I would have no choice but to remain here. But I was wrong. I never would have been able to communicate with you had I been born normal. That's why God had made me this way- so I could be your voice. I exist solely to be your voice. This-" Quasimodo made a gesture towards his face "-is well worth that honor."

She was deeply affected by this speech, both pleased and humbled by the bell ringer's words. Yet she was unaccustomed to such tender discourses and could do nothing but fiddle with her bracelets. It took her a moment to collect herself.

"I'm not going to play games," she said at last. "I'm not going to cast demure smiles and flutter my eyelashes. That's what I do- or used to do- whenever I wanted to earn extra coins. But I'm not going to do that with you. I refuse to drop subtle little suggestions about what I want and instead I'm going to blatantly say it." And then, in a great rush, she concluded, "Iwantyoutokissme."

The bell ringer gaped at her. "Are-are you sure?"

She answered by closing her eyes and tilting her head slightly to the side. Agnes felt a loose tendril of hair being swept away followed by a warm breath on her face. And then his lips brushed against hers with tentative shyness. It was chaste; it was innocent. And then it was over. Quasi drew back slightly, only to rest his forehead against hers. For a moment they sat like that, as motionless as statues, until his trembling hands crept up to rest on her shoulders. His movements were cautious as if Agnes was a costly treasure. It was true- the bell ringer had opted for the pretty rock, cherishing it more than the diamond despite its ordinariness. Agnes, with her maimed tongue and scarred lip, felt that she did indeed bear similarities to a fractured piece of quartz.

And the bell ringer then whispered, "Can I kiss you again?"

Agnes readily threw her arms around his neck, her hands persistently locking against his skull as she drew his face closer to hers with eagerness. She felt her allegiances changing as the embrace increasingly became more and more ardent. Her devotion to her adopted gypsy family was gone, replaced by the yearning to remain by the bell ringer's side. He said that he was made deformed for her. It was a terrible price to pay, but Quasi said that it was worth it. Agnes was willing to spend the rest of her life thanking him for it. She felt that it was her duty to make up for those twenty years of unhappiness and… And for the first time, Agnes was content with her lot in life. She blissfully closed her eyes while her lips closed over his once again, greedily accepting his kisses.

And down below people attending midday mass were now filing into the cathedral, a few of them casting puzzled looks towards the Notre Dame towers, wondering why the bells were not being rung as they always were before the mass started.

_Author's note: Again, I'm sorry for the delay. I wasn't happy about how this story was going. It was seriously turning into a soap opera. There was one chapter where Agnes was pursued by big, mean guards and Quasi comes to her rescue. I had another chapter where Quasi admitted that he once loved Esmeralda and a very jealous Agnes does not handle this with dignity. Then there was the chapter with Esmeralda and Phoebus's wedding, basically Quasi lamenting about how he was never going to be loved. Blah, Blah, Blah. Like I said, it was turning into a soap opera._

_I want to thank everyone for their very kind reviews. I greatly appreciate it._


	24. Chapter 24

Clopin shook his head disapprovingly at the impeccably dressed groom. "Too formal. See to it that the captain is dressed in proper attire." A battered plumed hat was instantly placed on Phoebus's head and a tatty, gaudily-colored mantle was thrown over his shoulders. "Much better. Now," the gypsy king ordered, "bring out the pretty bride. But first-" Clopin cast Phoebus a stern look "-the bride price. Hand it over." Phoebus tossed over a small satchel of gold. Esmeralda was then brought forth, dressed in the red and pink frock that she had worn on the Festival of Fools. Clopin stretched out his hands, placing them on the bowed heads of Phoebus and Esmeralda. "Brother, she is your wife. Sister, he is your husband. Go your ways." It was as simple as that; the captain and the gypsy were married and the festivity began. This was the first wedding to be celebrated outdoors in a long, long while, and the idea of it taking place away from the city and in a more rural setting increased the gypsy's already fun-loving spirit. They feasted, told jokes and laughed around the campfire. Fiddles where then heard and it was then that the bride pulled the groom away so that they could dance.

Agnes and Quasi sat side-by-side on a fallen log, a little too primly, and their eyes began to wonder away from the bride and groom, only to focus on all the other couples who were embracing freely and unabashedly. Agnes's fingers subsequently entwined with Quasimodo's. She waited for him to turn towards her, and when he did, Agnes snatched hold of his chin. She kissed him and let go, expecting him to shy away from her public display of affection, only he didn't. Instead his fingers caressed her cheek and he returned the gesture. For a few minutes they both forgot that there were others around. And then came the hooting- good-humored, not jeering- and that was followed by friendly banters and winks. She and Quasimodo drew back, grinning guiltily. The secret was out, but, if truth be told, Agnes didn't mind.

She, like Esmeralda, pulled at her lover's arm, but instead of dancing, Agnes lead Quasi away from the merrymaking. They sauntered through the countryside until settling on the grassy banks of the river. She was sure that they weren't the only people to sneak away. The other love-struck couples were probably whispering to one another, pledging their love and promising each other a grand and unproblematic future. But Agnes was content with just sitting in silence, because silence, she realized, wasn't really so bad. Quasi plucked a few blades of grass, running them between his thumb and forefinger; Agnes wondered is he had ever felt grass before. A swarm of fireflies were lazily hovering over the river, their gleaming bodies reflecting in the water. Agnes repeatedly snatched at them, finally managing to cup one the luminous insects. She nudged Quasi and slowly unclasped her hands to allow the firefly to trail off like a glowing ember. He watched it, wholly and utterly mesmerized, as though she had pulled off the greatest of magic tricks.

Agnes laughed and tucked herself under Quasimodo's arm. She nestled against his chest, happy and secure, and- most importantly- knowing the joys of loving and being loved in return. She listened to his cadenced heartbeat as his torso rose up and down. It created a rocking sensation. And as easily as an infant in a cradle, Ages began to grow drowsy.

"Agnes?" the bell ringer whispered just as she was beginning to fully nod off. Agnes stirred. "Are you awake?"

She propped herself up. "Mmm hmmm."

"There-there was something I've been wanting to ask you… Will you-" He gulped. "-Consent to be my wife?" Hastily, he added, "I-I can understand if you don't want to, but I-" His voice trailed off. Quasi dismayingly turned, addressing stone bridge. "I know that I'm being selfish… Just the idea of burdening you with the likes of…_me_." He shook his head regretfully and added, "I know what I look like and-"

Agnes silenced him by vigorously clasping her hand across his mouth- any harder and it would have been a slap. She waited for the overhead cloud to pass by and when the moonlight became bright again, Agnes withdrew her hand. Her lips formed the words "I think you're beautiful." And she meant it too, because Agnes had stopped comparing him to what was and was not normal. Upon hearing this statement, Quasimodo seized hold of her in a fervent embrace, burrowing his face against her neck with a heaving sob. Soon droplets were splattered against her throat. Agnes wiggled slightly, freeing her arms. One hand ran up and down the bell ringer's curved spine; the other swept through his hair.

"…Will you…" he choked into her shoulder.

Agnes leaned back, dried his wet eyes with her scarf, and tilted his face up towards hers. "Of course," she said simply. "Why on earth would I say no?"

Something cool was slipped on her finger. Looking down, Agnes saw a band of interwoven grass that Quasi had had twined together. She didn't care if her engagement ring wasn't gold. She didn't care that it would likely shred within the hour. The ring could have been incrusted in diamonds, and Agnes's happiness would not have been any greater.

_Author's note: I can't believe I haven't updated since May. _

_Okay, there's actually several reasons why it's taken me so long. First, there's the age-old excuse of writer's block. Second, I've been devoting a lot of time to my other story. Third, I went through a period of positively loathing this entire story. Fourth, this chapter did take a lot of work. I'm kept reworking it because I was afraid of it being too sappy. But, on the other hand, I do like syrupy mush. Besides, this is based on a Disney movie and even though there are some dark scenes, overall I did try to give the story a Disney-ish feel._

_A good deal of this chapter was inspired by a deleted scene from Hunchback of Notre Dame. There was a song called "As Long As There's a Moon," but it got scratched. But you can find it on Youtube, along with its storyboard. I absolutely fell in love with that song, but I can see why Disney decided not to include it. _

_Thank you for your patience, and thanks to all the people who reviewed my last chapter. _


	25. Chapter 25

It was only morning and already Agnes's skin was baking underneath the hot sun. Her nose and forehead had a ruddy hue and her hair was made heavier by perspiration. But there was a decent sized crowd and so she moved to a convenient spot where she could be seen as well as stay out of the crowd's general traffic. Agnes began to perform. Her dancing was still middling, but her movements were so animated that no one noticed. Her bare toes kicked up clouds of dust while she twirled, pranced and capered, her tambourine jingling to her own improvised tune. She was vaguely aware that as her tambourine bells chimed, so did the cathedral bells. The routine ended when Agnes collapsed into a somewhat graceful heap on the ground. She collected her earnings after that, satisfied with the results.

Agnes noticed Clopin sitting in his newly acquired, brightly painted cart. Hungover from yesterday's wedding celebration, the gypsy king winced each time the giant bells clanged.

"Hell's bells," he grouched. "Instruments of Lucifer, that's what they are! Wretched things! It hurts my head." Clopin sighed with a remorseful shake of the head. "I don't mean that. I love the bells, honest I do! So help me, I'm never drinking again." He covered his face with his hands. "I don't mean that either. Blast! What is it now?" A chattering cluster of youngsters had gathered around the wagon. "Not now, children, not now! Clopin just needs to rest his eyes." He peered at Agnes through his fingers. "Entertain them until this damnable headache goes away and- What, what, what are you pointing to? The puppets?" Agnes shook her head and pointed vehemently to the brass rings. "Fine!" Clopin pushed aside his collection of puppets and grabbed the rings. He grouchily shoved them into Agnes's hands, and Agnes, in return, made a cheeky _humph _sound_. _Inwardly she was pleased with her foster father's good-natured grumpiness. That was almost how it used to be.

Agnes took the rings and briskly clapped her hands to get the children's attention. She began to juggle. The rings gleamed underneath the bright sun and soon became a golden blur as Agnes juggled faster and faster. She then caught the rings and made a deep bow. The children applauded politely, but glanced eagerly back at Clopin because- and Agnes had to agree- stories and puppet shows were much more entertaining than juggling. But Clopin's was still muttering to himself as he massaged his temples; it was clear that there would be no more amusement that day.

Agnes then saw Quasimodo approaching the wagon. So did Clopin.

"Ahha!" Clopin barked and he flinched at the loudness of his own voice. "Here comes my tormenter!"

Quasimodo either did not hear the gypsy king's remark or just decided it was best to ignore it. He nodded courteously at Agnes. She knew why he was there. It was better, she decided, to just get it over and done with. Agnes locked eyes with the bell-ringer and nodded affirmably. She then retreated to the back of the wagon, nervous and fearful that Clopin would reject her suitor. 

"I don't know the correct way to do this," the bell-ringer began. "But I'm going to regard your customs, even though your ways are unfamiliar to me." It was good that he spoke in a tone that was mollifying. "I gather that it is appropriate to discuss matters with the girl's father."

"Ah." Agnes could tell that Clopin was pleased by the bell ringer's courteous manner. She envisioned her foster father running a hand along his goateed chin. "Come in, come in. The door is in the back." She could hear him bustling inside the wagon. The hinges creaked as Clopin opened the small door. He set out a small stepstool. "I imagine that you're not surprised by this?" the gypsy king wryly asked Agnes.

"No," Quasimodo answered for her, "because I had proposed to her last night. And she said yes." There was now a small hint of defiance in his tone. The bell-ringer stepped inside and closed the door behind him. Agnes sat on the stool.

"So," she heard Clopin say. "You and my daughter." There was a long pause.

"I know I don't deserve her."

"That may be," Clopin said somberly. "After all, she's a lady of the Court- the Court of Miracles, that is- as well as a king's daughter." Clopin's tone turned gracious. "But I am pleased by how you hold her in such high esteem. Not many would. That's a good sign- It shows that you intend to cherish my little lamb. And she likes you. My Agnes isn't the kind of girl who walks around in a lovesick daze, but I've noticed a particular gleam shining in her eyes. Her mother was like that."

There was a certain degree of sorrow hidden in those last few words. Agnes heard it and Quasimodo must have detected it as well because he said, "Tell me about her."

"What? Bernice? Oh, she was spirited girl. Charming… Mischievous… Looked a lot like Agnes, but fairer skinned, and a bit shorter and plumper. Flaxen haired."

"Green eyes?"

"Brown eyes," Clopin corrected. "And she died young, much too young."

"I'm sorry."

"I don't want your pity." Clopin was stern again, having quickly regained his composure. It was as if showing signs of sentiment made him feel vulnerable. "You didn't come here to listen to me reminiscing, You came here because you want to wed my daughter. You're a good man who will treat my Agnes well. But there are certain things that I must know before I grant permission. Tell me, Quasimodo, just how do you plan on supporting my daughter?"

"The archdeacon promised me wages for bell ringing, as well as chores. And if that's not enough, I can peddle small toys."

Clopin hastened to the next question. "And where do you plan on living? Surely, not the cathedral towers! If you think that I want my grandchildren running around up there-"

"I have discussed this with Phoebus and Esmeralda. They have agreed that Agnes and I can have the upstairs while they have the downstairs. Esmeralda said that after years of living in cramped quarters, a house like Phoebus's would seem far too spacious."

"I see."

Quasimodo then said, "Agnes once explained to me about bride prices-"

"There is no bride price," Clopin resolutely declared.

"I don't understand."

"Then let me explain. You saved Esmeralda from a horrible death. Not only that, but you saved my Agnes as well. You… don't know what she was like after Frollo got his hands on her. Oh, physically she recovered. But emotionally, she was dying. Then she met you and life returned. So you see, Quasimodo, I may be a charlatan, but I'm an honorable charlatan. If you want to wed a king's daughter, so be it. And besides, there is something that you are forgetting."

"And what's that?"

"That you yourself were once a king."

_Author's note: Okay! This story is almost done! Just one more chapter followed by an epilogue. _


End file.
